


"Good Morning, Mr. President,"

by buckydeservedmorepassiton (brummiebex)



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, American Politics, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Cheating, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, Joseph Rogers is a bit of an asshole, M/M, Political Alliances, Political Campaigns, Political Parties, Politics, Porn With Plot, President AU, Strangers to Lovers, Tony Stark has so much money he doesn't know what to do with it, Top Steve Rogers, United States
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22653295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brummiebex/pseuds/buckydeservedmorepassiton
Summary: What happens when a traditional, moderate conservative joins an eccentric so-far-left-we've-looped-back-around liberal on a unity ticket for President/VP of the United States? The Rogers-Stark 2020 campaign is born.Everyone thinks the governor won't last long, that he'll bow out long before the general election; and who better to prove the entire country wrong but New York's best crisis management firm, Barnes & Associates?James Barnes is the sort of man who could sell a glass of water to a drowning man—and that's just the sort of person they'll need to steal this election.Of course, as with most of my fics, hijinx and fuckery ensue. :)AKA: Bex re-watched Scandal and got an Idea™, so here are some CampaignManager!Bucky x PresidentialCandidate!Steve feels.WARNINGS ARE LISTED IN THE NOTES!!
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 36
Kudos: 189





	1. How does a blond-haired, blue-eyed veteran lose Texas?

**Author's Note:**

> TW: There will be explicit sexual content in most if not all of these chapters.  
> TW: If you are adverse to marital infidelity...this may not be the fic for you.  
> TW: There will be mentions of internalized homophobia and misogyny, not particularly from the main characters, but generally in the conservative party members.  
> TW: There will be blackmailing, extortion, and lots of other unfavorable tactics utilized in this fic, if that bothers you, I will do my best to warn for it, too.

“I don’t care what you do, or how you do it. Just fucking get it _done_.” The words came out with a ferocity the interns on the campaign had never seen from their boss—but he shouted at them nonetheless, and they all scattered like sheets of paper in the wind. 

Natasha appeared, her voice barely audible over what sounded like a hundred phones all ringing at the same time. She’s a wave of long, straight red hair, and loose white shirt sleeves. “What’s happening? Why is he yelling?” 

“Why am I yelling?” He shouts, pointing at the giant television with a rolled up piece of paper, “We just fucking lost Texas, Talia, I want Senator Dryer’s head, _on a stake_ , right now.” 

“Yes, well, the interns can’t get you that.” She hums, stalking up beside him with a grin. “If you give us a few hours, Clint can. Why are we decapitating a sitting senator?”

“Look.” He drops the wad of paper on the table. It’s a newspaper—Senator Dryer, the second-term Republican senator of the lovely state of Texas, had made an unsavory comment about their candidate; a candidate he’d recently endorsed with one of those very same, big-toothed, Texas grin of his. _‘He’s a bit young to be President.’_ is the blurb beside his stupid, smiling, cowboy hat-wearing face.

“Doesn’t matter.” Natasha shrugs. “Buck, we both knew we’d lose Texas.”

“How does a blond-haired, blue-eyed Army veteran lose _fucking_ _Texas?_ I’m going to gut that pot-bellied idiot like a _fish_.” James ruffles a hand through his hair, and with a sigh, “After all we gave him?”

“Let it go.” She says, as though it’s the simplest of things. “We’ve basically got all day before the west coast results come in. There’s nothing you can do right now that won’t drive you crazy. Turn the news off, stop reading the papers, and don’t go around screaming at the interns. You’re scaring them.” 

The two of them look at each other for a long moment, before a face-splitting grin stretched its way across Natasha’s red lips, and the two of them erupted in laughter. 

_James_? Stop stressing? _This_ far into an election?

“I do love a good laugh,” A voice off to their right sounds off. A deep, gravelly voice—and not the _good_ gravelly, either. More _grating_ than _attractive_ , like the shake of a lifelong smoker’s voice. That’s what Joseph Rogers sounded like. 

He didn’t _look_ all that terrible though. A handsome man, older in age, with a head of thick, gray hair. He wasn’t slim, but he was tall enough that the weight didn’t look out of place on him. He was handsome, but an incorrigible, unyielding conservative, which meant that Bucky didn’t fancy him too much. Yet, he has a distinguished look about him—but Bucky supposes that a few terms as governor in the South and an unsuccessful lap around this very campaign trail would do that to you. 

“Of course you do, Dad.” Another voice adds wearily. This voice was far, _far_ more tolerable. It was smooth, and thick, like honey, and gooped up Bucky’s insides all the same. 

Steven Rogers was nothing like his father. _Well_ —not in any way that really mattered. He looked like him, for sure. A head of thick, blond hair that it was clear his father had too, once upon a time. They both had the same piercing blue eyes, and strong, sharp jaws. They looked like the perfect American family-men, even if they had their generational differences. 

Steve went by Steve rather than Steven, which Bucky was grateful for, because he could _sell_ an _‘Everyday-American-Steve’_ better than he could a _‘Stuffy-Steven’._ The man seemed to have a stoic little frown on his face, 24/7. Although that initially made Bucky happy—a smiley, blond _Republican_ would be hard to imagine as President—it was beginning to tax him. 

He was growing annoyed of fighting so diligently for a member of his _opposing_ political party, especially when the fucker wouldn’t even smile when he walked into a room.

Natasha looks at them first, smiling in greeting. Bucky is far slower to turn. When he does, he sees the two men, as well as the slim, petite blonde following close behind Steve, her fingers laced through his. 

“Mr. Rogers.” Bucky clears his throat. “I’m afraid it seems we’ll be losing the great State of Texas.” 

“So I hear.” Joe drawls out. The accent didn’t even make sense—he was _from_ New York—but Bucky didn’t question it anymore. This family was far too confusing to nitpick accents. “That’s a shame.” 

A hot second goes by in silence, and Natasha moves to fill it with reassurances, “We’re projected to start picking up steam in the more moderate red states—”

“You know,” Joe interrupts her without batting an eye. Bucky felt her tense beside him. There’s no malice in his voice when he adds the rest, as a matter of fact he chuckles, the whole jab laced in humor; but it still winds Bucky up. “I’m really starting to think they sent you down here as a bit of _sabotage_.” 

Bucky clears his throat again, ready to cordially—yet _expertly_ —cut Mr. Joe Rogers down to size, and remind him _just_ who he’s giggling at, but Steve cuts in. 

“We were trailing in Texas long before Mr. Barnes joined the campaign.” He says, simply. 

“I know that, boy,” He chuckles again, big and airy like he’s every and anyone’s friend. Yet, both Bucky and Natasha see the way Steve’s expression changes at _‘boy’_ , “I’m just saying, it’s a little funny! You’ve got a Democrat running a Republican candidate’s campaign. Apples to oranges, you get what I’m saying?” 

This time, Bucky’s snark wouldn’t be cut short. “Consider it this way, Joe.” He hums, in a deceptively light and playful tone, “I don’t like losing, so I don’t have a party affiliation. I’m blissfully independent. If I like the apple’s odds, I water the apple tree. If I like the orange’s odds, I water the orange tree. I haven’t been wrong yet.”

“I see,” Joe grins, settling in one of the chairs around the conference table. “Then thank God you chose to water _our_ tree.” 

Bucky considers being transparent then, and for a split second with the way Steve’s eyes settle on him, he thinks he expects him to, too. The campaign was doomed without him—both he and Steve knew that, but to preserve his father’s pride, Bucky is certain that Steve is purposefully keeping Joe out of the loop. Bucky didn’t just bring himself and his team—he came with _money_ , an almost-endless supply of it in the form of donors, money that Steve’s campaign desperately needed. 

But Bucky doesn’t think they need to talk about that yet; mainly because he knows they won’t do much talking, just _yelling_ , and that’s the last thing they need while primary and caucus results trickle in. 

It’s Steve’s turn to clear his throat, “What are the latests polls suggesting, Ms. Romanov?” 

She nods, “It’s tight, but we’re leading. Pierce is only popular in the deep-red states. As long as you continue to poll high in moderate and blue states, you’ll lock up the remainder of the East coast delegates and a lot of the Midwest.”

“That’s a lot of wishful thinkin’ for Super Tuesday, especially this late in the game.” Joe hums in disbelief.

Steve ignores him. “I know the plan is to stay here until, what, noon? But is there anything I can do to pull us into the home stretch any stronger?” 

Bucky shakes his head, “No. You need keep the same narrative we’ve kept for the last few weeks. We need you and Mrs. Rogers shaking hands and kissing babies.” 

“Oh, come on now, look, Sharon would be far more useful here! Sharon,” Joe drawls out, and Mrs. Rogers steps out from behind her husband, “Why don’t you make some calls, huh? See who you can sway in your circles? A lot of politicians listen to their wives, I sure as shit did.” 

Bucky looks to Steve. He _was_ the candidate, so he has the final say on all decisions. Oddly enough, Steve was already looking at him. Their eyes meet, and Bucky can’t help but shift his attention down to Sharon instead. She seems embarrassed. Bucky thinks he’d be embarrassed too, if his father-in-law had just suggested all he was good for was using his gossip circles to sway their husbands’ politics. 

“I think the optics are far more important here.” Bucky finally says, gently.

“We’ve already lost Texas to Pierce!” Joe argues. “A whole lotta good kissin’ babies does us in Dallas!” 

“Doesn’t matter. A picture to the press is just a picture, Mr. Rogers.” He says firmly, “Doesn’t matter where it’s taken. I assure you, I’ve run _many_ successful campaigns, with far less likeable candidates. At this point, we’ve done everything we can. All we can do is stick to the schedule and try not to fuck things up until the endgame.” 

Joe makes a disapproving noise, and grunts in the affirmative. “I sure as shit hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Barnes.” 

***

Later that afternoon, they fly back to New York as promised. And just as Bucky had predicted, most conservative media outlets were gobbling up they optics they’d crafted. Fox, One American, even fucking _CNN_ was talking about how graciously it seemed Steve Rogers was taking the loss in his father’s gubernatorial state. 

Joe certainly wasn’t happy about that. He insisted they turn tail and scurry out of Texas as soon as it became clear Pierce had gained an unquestionable lead. Steve, however, was far less of a sore loser, and continued to follow Bucky’s plans to a tee. He shook hands, he took pictures with supporters, and held many babies with his wife, which kept them trending on social media and traditional news alike. 

Bucky had just gotten off the phone with the Governor of New Hampshire, one of the only Republican governors in New England, having swayed him to the Rogers camp. Just then, he was on-hold for the Governor of Vermont—and what does he see on his Twitter feed? Sharon Rogers holding a plump, round baby, with Steve looking over her shoulder as they coo at them. It’s a Buzzfeed article, and the headline reads— _‘America’s favorite golden-haired couple is so cute, we kinda forgot about the primaries.’_

At first, he couldn’t tell if that was good or not, but a quick perusing showed that people were over the moon at how familial they looked. That was more than enough for him. 

_“Bucky!”_ Comes from the phone he’d almost forgotten about. _“Hell of a show you put on in Dallas this morning,”_

“Governor Lang,” Bucky stretches out, “You know I don’t half-ass anything.” 

_“Of course. How are you?”_

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll be a hell of a lot better come this evening when Steve Rogers all but secures the RNC Nomination.”He grins, “How are things with you? How’s Cassie?” 

_“A pain in my ass, of course, but you already know that.”_ He says with a gruff laugh, _“I know you’re a busy man, Barnes. What can we do for each other?”_

Bucky grins even wider at that. “Governor Lang, you might just be my favorite person today. Here’s the deal. I’ve got a little script here—A few _vaguely_ supportive words, is all. I’d like you to say them tonight at your gala.” 

_“I see_ , _”_ He hums, _“How vague?”_

“Something within the lines of ‘if there was going to be a conservative in the oval and liberals in the senate, we’d get a lot more done in the next four years if he leaned moderately’. How’s that for vague? No names, no endorsements to insult that bright blue base of yours, and no strings attached.”

_“Doesn’t sound too offensive.”_ Lang huffs a laugh again, _“God, Barnes, you’re losing your bite! I expected threats, blackmail, the nines!”_

“I’ll save the nines for my more difficult calls.” Bucky teases, “Jersey’s next.”

_“Alright, you got it, Buck. You had my ass last election, I’ll give your golden boy_ _a vague endorsement_.” 

Just then, Natasha steps into his office, suspiciously eyeing him. “I knew you’d come around, Governor. Thank you for your time, sir.” 

With a curt goodbye from Lang, they end the call, and Natasha quickly begins speaking, “He’s polling even higher in the east.” She quips, then changes her tune, “What did you do?” 

“I’m subtly swindling the American people.” Bucky flips a page of his legal pad up, “How’s Banner on the statements?” 

“I don’t know, ask Banner.” She settles in the seat across from him. 

Bucky pauses, dropping the page and glancing out at his oldest friend, “What? What’s wrong?” 

“Are you sleeping with Steve?” She deadpans.

He blinks at her once, then twice, unmoving. Then unceremoniously, “He’s blond, married, and a _Republican_.” 

“So?”

“Does that seem like my type, Talia?”

“Your type is domineering and austere, with broad shoulders.” She says firmly. 

He snorts, returning to his notes. “Well, I’m not a home-wrecker.” 

“They hardly have a home to wreck.” She says, just as serious as before. He looks at her again and she adds, “No kids. They’re barely even married. We had to teach them how to hold hands, for fuck’s sake.” 

Bucky sucks in a breath. It was true. Embarrassingly, awkwardly true. Before Bucky had come along, it was been the Joseph Rogers Show, and that meant Steve was marching around the country talking at people with his wife cooped up in the Albany Governor’s Mansion. They’d been so painfully uncoordinated together, bumping into one another when they walked, unaccustomed to each other’s gaits. Now, they were ‘the country’s golden couple’, as Buzzfeed had put it. 

Still, Bucky only grinned at Natasha, “They’ll be fine. She doesn’t have to like him to be First Lady.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” 

Bucky’s breast pocket vibrates, so he fishes his phone out. It’s a text message from Steve: _You’ve got friends in New Hampshire? How’d you get Dillon to drop Pierce?_

He rises from his seat, looks at Natasha and grins, “Then I guess your question goes unanswered.” 

***

The viewing party was pretty small, just the immediate campaign HQ staff, the interns, and Steve’s immediate family. His mother, Sarah, had flown down from Albany to ring in the results with them upon their return to the city. 

Bucky stood at the back of the room, far too nervous to sit. Not that he looked nervous—he never _looked_ nervous. No, he was stood tall, perfect posture—as always—and took long slow steps across the back of the room, checking on one thing or another every few paces. 

Natasha falls in step beside him with the latest polls. “He’s doing _really_ well in the west coast states.” 

“Good.” Bucky says, flagging his intern, Peter as he whizzed by. “Parker, where are the statements?” 

“Mr. Banner is just tweaking them,” He replies. 

“You tell Banner that _I_ say Rogers isn’t reading _shit_ I haven’t read and approved first. So if he wants him to use _his_ words and not just go out in front of the cameras gaping like a fish, he’ll get me a copy of them, _now_.” 

“Yessir!” Pete squeaks, and darts off to find the wayward speechwriter.

“You’re awfully mean to Petey,” Natasha says fondly.

“It builds character."

“The west coast states. That’s a strange foothold we didn’t have this morning.” Natasha arches an eyebrow. “I hope you haven’t spent too much of our capital, we’ve still got a general to campaign.”

“Now why would I do that?” Bucky hums playfully. 

“Seriously, what have you done?” She grits out through tight lips. 

“Nothing,” He smiles, “We just picked the right tree to water.” 

The time goes by, with the results coming in slowly. The east coast is decidedly Rogers’ territory, with him locking down his state of incumbency by a landslide. He stole a lot more purple states than Bucky had expected, but he wouldn’t complain. And before they knew it, CNN, MSNBC, and FOX were all reporting the same results. 

At the end of the the decisive primaries, Steve Rogers had received a total of 1,447 delegates to date. In a race narrowed to three candidates, that put him well past the threshold he needed to secure the GOP nomination.

Joe, of course, is the first to pop a bottle of champagne. They’re circulating drinks and well-wishes when a congratulatory call from GOP chairwoman comes in not much later. Amidst the cheering and drinking, Steve slips into the hallway with to take her call. 

Bucky glances around the room—Natasha had been tugged from his side by her overzealous boyfriend, and Peter, hopefully, is hunting down the statement Steve would need to release before the end of the night. Hoping he’s quiet and swift about it, he slips out of the excitement into the hall. 

It’s long and quiet, save Steve’s rumbly voice. “I appreciate it. It’s a great honor, ma’am.” 

Bucky follows the voice, until he finally happens upon the candidate.

He’s loosened his tie and undone the top two buttons of his dress shirt. It’s been a long, _long_ day for him, Bucky imagines, and it still wasn’t over. He had to make an unofficially official statement regarding the way he’d locked up the nomination for himself. Whether it was official until the last few states finished their primaries tomorrow or not—the two of them knew and the entire _country_ knew that Steven Rogers was now the GOP candidate.

“Is there a reason that an absolute onslaught of democrats made statements in my favor tonight?” 

Bucky decides to ignore his question, raising his palms innocently. “I just wanted to say congratulations, Mr. Nominee.” 

Steve’s eyes settle on Bucky oddly. “It’s not official until the final primaries on Thursday.” 

“No, it isn’t.” Bucky hums, “But we all know Pierce isn’t pulling any votes from the territories.” He gestures to the conference room, “You should be celebrating.”

“I’ll celebrate after the national convention.” He grunts. “You got Dillon to switch teams.” Steve says matter-of-factly.

“I did.”

“Do I want to know how?” Bucky swears he sees Steve crack a smile.

“His daughter had an abortion last May. I handled it for them.” Bucky shrugs. “Wasn’t a very _conservative_ thing to let his daughter do.”

Steve’s smile is gone in an instant, but Bucky’s only widens. 

“Oh, Stevie, you’ve got a thing or two to learn about the big leagues, huh?” Bucky smiles, aiming for reassuring, but definitely falling closer to patronizing. “This isn’t a state race anymore. You aren’t fighting for counties. You’re fighting for _states_ , and to win states, you’ve gotta play hard-ball.” 

“No more of that.” Steve grunts. “No blackmail. We win the general _clean_.” 

“Then no more _me_.” Bucky says clearly. “We do things my way, you win. We don’t, you’re on your own, and you don’t even get your old office back. That’s how this works.” 

Steve takes a few menacing steps forward, stopping just short of bumping into Bucky. He’s taller, because _of course he would be_ , _right?_ Bucky didn’t look up at him, he stared out at his shoulder, smug smile still on his lips. He’s so close, Bucky can smell the scent of his cologne. The scent of his skin, and the fresh smell of his clean clothes. Bucky had picked that shirt. It looked presidential. Perfect for him to make his statement in, later. 

“If that’s how this goes—if you’re going to threaten to _leave_ every time I challenge you, then we ought to end this now.” Steve says nonchalantly. 

_That_ makes Bucky look up at him. 

He’s got a little smirk on his lips, and with a soft sigh, he shoves both hands into his pockets. “I don’t like being given ultimatums, Bucky. You know that.”

“It’s not an ultimatum.” Bucky straightens up, “It’s a promise. I told Tony I’d make you President. I can only do that if you let me. And you should prepare yourself, by the way. Expect a rather demanding call from him pretty soon.” 

Steve clicks his tongue. “He wants the VP spot.” 

“That he does.” 

His jaw clenches. “Yet, he’s a Democrat.” 

“A Democrat you took a _lot_ of money from.” 

He closes his eyes, annoyed. “What? How are you— _who_ in their right mind is going to buy a unity ticket? Especially after Pierce?” 

Bucky takes a shallow breath, assaulted by Steve’s encompassing presence, and makes the promise, “This whole goddamned country, once I’m done with the two of you.” 

Steve is quiet for a second, and Bucky can feel him staring down at him, even if he’d looked away again. Gently, Bucky feels their fingers brush. 

“I bet you could do it. I’m not…opposed.” Steve whispers. “Joe will be. Most Republicans, too.” 

“If you can handle Joe, I can handle most Republicans.” Bucky breathes a little laugh.

Steve also laughs, a deep rumbly sound that brought them even closer together, “God, they’ll probably find a way to renege the nomination once they find out who I want to announce as VP.”

“I’d _love_ to see them try.” Bucky grumbles.

A soft sound of amusement is pulled from Steve’s lips, and Bucky takes a step back, feeling the cool air on his front now that Steve’s giant body wasn’t blocking it. Bucky fiddles with his watch, feeling uncharacteristically jittery. Fucking _Steve_ making him feel all wobbly. 

“I—I need to check on Banner. He should have finished your statement hours ago.” 

Steve’s giant palm wraps around Bucky’s wrist, long before he even turned to move. 

“Do you?” 

“ _Steve_ ,” 

“You wanted to congratulate me.” Steve repeats Bucky’s words back to him, his voice low. “I did just win a primary.” 

“What happened to it not being official yet?” Bucky looks down at the hard, tan fist gently holding his pale wrist. Slowly, that wrist swiped up his arm and onto his neck, making him shiver. “ _Steven_.” 

“Steve.” He corrects, pulling the little tie out of Bucky’s hair, causing his curls to fall out of their neat bun. “S’Steve. Or Stevie. I quite like Stevie coming from you.”

Bucky felt his cheeks start burning. He did call him Stevie the last time they’d been alone like this. “You should get back to your family, and I should find your speechwriter.” 

“They’re perfectly fine celebrating without me, and I’d much rather you not.” Steve mumbles, and his eyes dart off to the side. Bucky follows his gaze to where a door just down the hall read _‘Supply Closet’_.

Bucky stilled, considering it. Part of him shirked at the idea of getting nasty in a supply closet like some fucking intern. But another part of him remembered that he wasn’t an intern, he was the campaign _manager_ , and he wasn’t fucking just _anyone_ , he was fucking the GOP nominee for _President_. 

Whether it was Steve in front of him, the title the primary results had just tacked onto his name, or some strange combination of both, Bucky didn’t know; but what he did know is he’s _never_ gotten an erection that quickly. 

He leapt onto his toes, snaking his fingers in that pale, soft, straw-colored hair. Their lips slotted together with breathless pants, and they barely stagger back into the closet before Bucky started pulling Steve out of the pretty dress shirt. 

The man had an expanse of chest, with defined muscles that were far too impressive for a politician. But Bucky absolutely _loved_ it, and took great pleasure in running his hands all over the flawless skin. 

Steve also enjoyed Bucky’s body. He had a habit of telling the brunette _exactly_ what he enjoyed about it, in _detail_. So when Bucky feels him reaching for his belt, he quickly pulls back his own hands to give him better access. 

It’s automatic, how Steve drops to a squat, pressing wet kisses to Bucky’s exposed skin just above the waistband of his slacks. In an instant, Bucky felt the cool air meet his heated skin as his entire bottom half was now exposed in the open air. 

“Fucking look at that, _Jesus_ , Buck,” Steve moaned to himself, pressing a wet kiss to the throbbing erection. “S’so fuckin’ _pretty_.” The praise went straight to Bucky’s head, making him twitch against Steve’s lips.

And _that_ , ladies and gentlemen, is why Bucky would never, _ever_ admit he was fucking Steve Rogers. 

Not because he’s married. 

Not because he’s a Republican. 

Not even because he was technically his client. 

No, it was because Steve Rogers turned him into a _whimpering_ , _begging_ _mess_ every time he so much as laid a _finger_ on him. 

And when you’re James Barnes, owner and operator of the most efficient crisis management firm in NYC, when you’ve run campaign after campaign and _never_ lost an election, when you’re entire reputation surrounds you being a professional, a bonafide hard _-_ ass, and a bit of a bitch, the idea of _that_ getting out is downright _terrifying_. 

“C’mon, lift up for me.” Steve whispers, and Bucky gently lifts his leg, helping Steve set it on his shoulder, and God, if Bucky could take a picture of him like that, down between his legs, suckling contentedly on his cock, he probably would. 

Steve’s fist took over the job of keeping Bucky’s cock happy, while the blond’s lips dove lower. 

“Oh, _fuck,_ Stevie,” Bucky let his head fall back against the wall. “Right there, _please,_ ”

Steve indulged him, taking his tongue right up to his tight little rim. Bucky couldn’t stifle the moan that escaped him, and laces his hands in the soft blond head settled between his legs. 

He suckles on his index finger for a second, then presses it right up against that rim, circling gently and kissing the thigh slung over his shoulder.“Does that feel good, baby?” 

“Mhm,” Bucky whined, because ‘ _baby’_? ‘ _Baby’!_ My god, his brain felt thick and foggy with the lull of Stevie, Stevie, _Stevie_. _His_ Stevie, he thought selfishly, because nobody ever made him feel this good, _nobody._ No one ever talked to him like this while they fucked him—and maybe that just meant Bucky had been sleeping with all the wrong people over the years, but this was _right now_ , and right now, Stevie was being _so_ good to him. 

“You gonna let me fuck you, Bucky?” Steve whispered, pressing his finger until it was completely inside him, “You want this?” 

“Yes,” Bucky moaned, and with a particularly perfect stroke of Steve’s hand, felt himself getting closer. “Mmn, hurry, Stevie, m’close,” 

Steve kissed the crease where his thigh met his groin and spit a little more slick onto his fingers, “One day, I’m gonna lick you open nice and slow.” Steve says slowly. A promise, Bucky realizes. “Gonna make it so you’re begging for it, Buck, ‘til you make an absolute fuckin’ mess all over yourself and don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore.” 

“Oh my _God_ , Steeeeeeve,” Bucky whines again, his eyes growing glassy with frustration. He wanted release, but Steve’s hand stilled on his cock, and suddenly, the blond was rising to his feet. 

“Fucking _wait_.” He puts his hand out on Bucky’s collar, holding him still, against the wall, and undoes his belt and fly with the other hand. 

And my God, if that wasn’t the sexiest thing Bucky thinks he’s ever seen _anyone_ do.

Without much warning, Steve yanks Bucky up against him with little effort, then walks him against the wall with just enough force to make the brunet gasp. 

“So impatient.” Steve grumbles, teasing the head of his cock against Bucky’s rim. “Do you always get what you want?” 

Bucky nods his head, “ _Please?_ ” 

“Please?” Steve repeats teasingly, then kisses him, hard. And it becomes clear why, because immediately after, he sinks into Bucky with one hard stroke. Bucky’s yelp is muffled against his soft lips. The sting of the sudden stretch is quickly replaced when the blond picks up a relentless pace, his cock slipping against Bucky’s sweet spot over and over and _over_ again. 

Bucky doesn’t think he could stifle his moans if he tried.

That is, until his phone started ringing in his jacket pocket. Still firmly against his chest, sandwiched between he and Steve, it’s close enough for the blond to grope around for it blindly, finally yank it out, click the ringer off, and discard it over his shoulder—never once slowing his strokes. 

“So fucking _tight_ ,” Steve groans, “You want to come pretty bad, huh? I—I can feel you trying to hold it back.” 

Bucky can only nod, which makes Steve growl and kiss him. 

“You’re so good, Buck.” Steve hums “I bet you like me telling you that, too. You _feel_ good, you _taste_ good, and you take my cock _so_ sweetly.” 

“Mh—oh my _fucking god_ , Steve m’gonna come—”

“No,” Steve commands, grasping Bucky’s thighs, _hard_. “Not yet.” 

“ _Please_ —”

Suddenly there’s another voice—coming from the hall. A woman’s voice. Bucky barely hears it, especially since Steve doesn’t stop absolutely fucking _railing_ him. 

“Bucky?” Comes from down the hall, quickly approaching with the click of heels.

Bucky’s voice is small, whimpering, “‘M’my god, Stevie _please,_ ” 

“No,” Steve repeats, slowing his stroke to measured, more deliberate thrusts. Just how this man had learned his body well enough to angle for his sweet spot with each snap of his hips, Bucky had no fucking clue, but he would thank God every day for it.

“Buckyyyyyy,” Natasha sings in the hall, annoyed, “Where the fuck did you go?”

When she’s just outside of the door, Steve smiles against Bucky’s neck deviously. Then, with a hard, rough, snap of his hips, drives _right_ into his prostate again. 

He barely, and I mean _barely,_ slapped his hand over Bucky’s mouth fast enough to cover the shout that escaped him as he came, untouched, all over Steve’s exposed stomach.

Natasha keeps going down the hall, still calling out for her boss, even as he’s slumped under their candidate, completely _reeling_ from an orgasm. 

“Need me to stop?” Steve asks, dropping a kiss to Bucky’s lips. 

“No,” Bucky crosses his ankles on Steve’s hips. “Keep—keep going. Until you, um,” 

Steve smiles against his neck again, “You want me to keep fucking you?” 

“Yes,” Bucky whispers. “I—I can come again, I think.” 

“Someone missed me, huh?” Steve whispers, slowly picking his hips up again. Bucky felt the familiar coil of heat in his gut again. He was right. He was going to come again, on Steve’s cock, probably untouched again. “Mhm, I fuckin’ missed you, too, Buck. Y’feel so _fuckin_ ’ good.” 

This time, Steve had Bucky’s legs pushed up against his chest—neither of them knew Bucky was just _that_ bendy, but the position allowed Steve to piston his hips in a way that made Bucky forget how words worked. 

“Mhm—Ohmygod, ohmygod, hnnng,” Bucky murmured breathlessly.

“Feeling good, baby boy?” Steve demanded, and from the husk in his voice, Bucky knew he was close. 

“Yes, fucking hell,” Bucky felt his eyes cross, and he’s caught by another wave of an orgasm, crashing over him and making his legs shake _._ Steve followed close after, and Bucky was _just_ quick enough to make him pull out, and hand him his pocket square in time to catch his ejaculate before it landed either on or _inside_ him. 

They take a long, long moment to catch themselves, and when Bucky finds his voice, it’s small, quiet, and throughly fucked, “You—you’ve got to go get cleaned up.” He folds the pocket square over, swiping most of the mess off of Steve’s abs. “You’ve got to make that statement tonight.” 

Steve takes Bucky’s wrist again, much gentler this time. “Are you good?” And there’s genuine concern in his eyes when he adds, “I—I got kinda caught up. Didn’t mean to get so rough with you.” 

Bucky can’t help but roll his eyes, “M’fine, Steve. I can take a little roughing up.” 

Without warning, Steve presses their lips together again. When he pulls away, it’s with a little growl. “Good. Because I _really_ fucking enjoyed that.” 

And just like that, Bucky felt small again. He knew a vibrant blush was spreading across his face, but he didn’t say anything, just watches Steve shrug back into his now-wrinkled shirt. Once it’s on and buttoned, Bucky smoothes it out a bit.

“You go out first.” Bucky mumbles. “I’ll wait a little while and head out after you. Send the statement to me _before_ you give it, please.”

“Got it.” 

“And if anyone asks, you haven’t seen me for the evening, okay? You left the conference room to take the chairwoman’s call, and you came right back.”

Steve grins. “Oh I’ve seen you, alright.”

“ _Stevie_.” 

“I got it.” He presses another quick kiss to Bucky’s lips and darts through the door. 

***

After their rendezvous, Bucky was having a bit of difficulty looking anyone in the eye. Not tomention, he was also having difficulty staying on his feet. You know, after being debased in a supply closet by a _giant_? Everything from the waist down felt like jello, and he couldn’t stand for very long without leaning on something—and he noticed just how his trembling Bambi legs made Steve smirk at him from across the room.

Hesitant to give himself away, he decided to slip out after he’d set everything in motion, and cabs back to his apartment. Fortunately, the campaign headquarters was in both he and Steve’s home district of Brooklyn, so the drive was short and quick. 

He’s keyed-in in no time, and after a quick nod at the doorman, and a short elevator ride up, he’s home. 

Bucky loved his new apartment—as much as he enjoyed his brownstone in Sunset Park, he much preferred the ease of living closer to the HQ in Prospect Heights. 

With wobbly legs, he made his way into his too-big, hardly-used kitchen, and fetched the only thing he kept in excess there— _wine_. Champagne was fun, but Bucky preferred to celebrate his wins with old, expensive bottles of wine. Filling a too-large glass with a too-expensive choice, he moves towards his living room, casting an appreciative glance at the view of the Manhattan skyline. Then, he clicks on the TV, just in time to see Steve—and noticeably, Sharon—step out of HQ and towards the reporters. 

There, his perfectly crafted scene went off without a hitch. 

Bucky had given everyone their jobs, and they were followed swimmingly. The interns all started leaving first, then finally, Steve and his family stepped out last. Steve’s arm was wrapped protectively around Sharon’s waist, and his other hand held his mother’s. Having Joe lock the doors to the building was a nice touch, too. It didn’t seem like they had security, even ifthey _did_ , just outside of the camera frame.

That built character—set up a story for the viewers to piece together on their own—it showed this every-day American family keeping their inner every-day American selves alive and well, even before any of them had said a word. 

It made them likeable.

Average-looking.

Even if they were anything but. 

Steve and Sharon step towards the cameras, humbly accepting congratulations from the reporters. Then, his statement goes off without a hitch, too. 

“Well, we’re not in the clear just yet.” He shoots a bright white smile, “There are still a few primaries left. I encourage anyone who hasn’t cast their vote yet to do so when the time comes, regardless of which side of the aisle they fall on. Now is the time to throw their support for whoever they feel represents them best, even if that isn’t me.” 

“Perfect.” Bucky breathes to no one. He’d done perfectly—he’d gotten it all right. The cadence, the humility, the subtle Brooklyn accent _._ It was deliciously perfect, and Bucky couldn’t help but grin. 

He stuck around to answer a few more questions, the reporters going on about unprecedented results and this having been a history-making Super Tuesday, but Bucky is interrupted by a phone call. The voice on the other side of the line is loud and hearty.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” It goads with no real malice. “I don’t know how you did that, but I could kiss you.” 

“Anthony, what has your wife told you about going around kissing people?” Bucky chides playfully. 

“Oh, she’ll want to kiss you, too.” He laughs, “Really though. Astounding work. I hate to admit it, Buck, but this was the first time I’d ever doubted you.”

“I’m offended.” He takes a sip of his wine, “When have I ever let you down?” 

“He’s a three-term governor. He’s hardly making the age requirements. Not to mention he was up against a sitting president! When was the last time an incumbent president lost a primary?” 

“Never.” Bucky positively beams. “Kennedy tried Carter, Buchanan tried Bush. Neither of them won.” 

“I can hear you grinning,” Tony groans, “This is going to go to your head, isn’t it? You really _can_ spin anything. You’re going never going to let any of us live this down.” 

“Absolutely not,” Bucky leans forward, setting his wine down. “Just you wait until I sell a unity ticket to post-Pierce America. I’ll be insufferable.” 

Tony laughs, and Bucky can almost imagine him at his desk, with his feet kicked on top of it “You will. Gotta say, ‘Rogers-Stark 2020’ has a hell of a ring to it.” 


	2. “Charm the pants off of Anderson Cooper, and generally repeat his last statement.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After winning the RNC nomination, the Presidential debates come around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello!  
> This isn't going to be a long-fic, so the plot will jump a lot between chapters. This chapter starts at the second presidential debate, meaning the gang is not too far out from the election. 
> 
> PS: I love reading comments, so leave me one if you're enjoying the fic! xx
> 
> TW: This chapter contains mentions of race-related violence and utilization of racial conflicts as a political tool.

“How can the American people see themselves in you, Governor Rogers?” Bucky’s tone is clipped. He takes a quick glance at the stop-clock in front of Peter and continues, “You’re young and you’ve only just started your family. How does the average American look to you and see themselves? Husbands maybe, but _fathers_ , every-day blue collar folks—you’ve got nothing in common.”

Steve, across the mock debate stage, tenses his jaw. “That’s hardly relevant to this debate—”

“I’d say it is,” Bucky gesticulates widely, “You want to represent the great citizens of this country, when you don’t look like half of them?”

Steve glares now. “What does this have to do with my capability to be president, James?”

Bucky takes a breath, and glances at Natasha, who’s sporting a sly little smile. She obliges, “Mr. Rogers, you’ve got an image problem.” 

“An image problem?” Tony asks, from his own podium. “He’s young, he’s handsome, and he’s educated. He’s as sweet as a fucking golden retriever. He and his wife are in every gossip rag. Women and kids love him. What could _possibly_ be wrong with his image?”

“He’s young, he’s handsome, and he’s educated.” Natasha parrots back at him. “That doesn’t apply to a _considerable_ portion of this country.” 

“How does Wilson do any better?” Steve folds his arms across his broad chest. 

“He doesn’t have to.” Natasha raises an eyebrow. “He’s a liberal—his base expects a young, spry candidate. Yours, unfortunately, does not.” 

“Bingo.” Bucky nods, “Either Wilson or his running mate will come at you from this angle, so you need to be prepared. You can’t get defensive. Drop your shoulders, soften your face, and let’s take it from the top.” 

Steve reluctantly does as told, with a little shimmy of his arms, his soft, stoic frown returns, and they start running through the material. Sure enough, they got back to his image. 

“Family values are extremely important to me, of course, and my wife and I look forward to starting our family very soon. I hope I’ll make a great father, just like the fathers here tonight, and the parents listening, across the country.” Steve tries, his tone graceful and humble. “I can acknowledge the privileges I’ve received in my life—a financially stable family, a formal higher education—and I am _determined_ to make these things a reality for every American and their families.” 

Bucky looks up at him, impressed. He’d turned that around quite effectively.

“What if she keeps going?” Natasha interjects. “Maximoff is feisty. She won’t back down that easily.”

“While that’s a very tasteful sound-byte, your track record as governor seems to contradict your promises,” Bucky replies, his voice sharp and accusatory, just like Maximoff might. 

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes to him, so he snaps it shut again. Tony lets out a low whistle, “What if I said something? Rogers had done a lot for New York’s infrastructure, and he’s taken considerable steps to promote small businesses.”

“No,” Natasha says, “That makes it look like you’re deflecting. Not to mention it brings up _your_ image problem.”

“Oh, now _I_ have an image problem, too?” Tony laughs, “Good god, you people are a bunch of worry warts. This is hardly—”

“Mr. Stark, what do you have to say about the—” Natasha glances down at her notes, “—$19 million you invested in overseas manufacturing, _this year?_ Those factory jobs too difficult for Americans?”

Steve snaps to look at him, “Nineteen _million_?” 

“Hey now,” Tony furrows his brows. “Manufacturing for Stark Industries was reallocated overseas to cut the transportation costs of raw goods. It’s not like we’re outsourcing the work to sweatshops and underpaying impoverished people. We wouldn’t even _have_ to outsource if it weren’t for the embargos against China and other Southeast-Asian countries. They make it hell on earth to get the materials we need to the US to manufacture. It’s cheaper to assemble in the same places we mine.” 

“Nineteen million.” Natasha just repeats with a little shrug.

“Yes!” Tony defends, “That’s $19 million dollars invested in the low-income, rural provinces of already poor countries. _That_ is international diplomacy!”

“Yes. I know that. You know that. We _all_ know that, because we all lean _left_.” Bucky says, gathering his legal pad. 

Clearly, he had a metric-fuck-ton of revising to do to their game plan before tomorrow’s second debate. 

The campaign manager runs an antsy hand through his hair and frowns, “You’ll be standing next to a conservative candidate, who _just_ got through saying he wanted to make higher education and financial stability a reality for every American. So when you’re asked _‘why’d you outsource nineteen million dollars of manufacturing work to Southeast Asia’,_ you sure as shit better have a better answer than _‘it was cheaper’_.” 

“Jesus,” Tony breathes, raking a hand through his hair, “You two aren’t pulling any punches.”

“Why don’t we take a break?” Steve says more than he asks, and steps off of the podium before waiting for an answer. 

“Take fifteen, everyone.” Bucky calls, and the interns, and campaign hands all disperse, and a flow of casual conversation replaces the terse silence they’d all maintained during the mock debate. 

“Bucky, my buddy, my pal,” Tony sings, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “Clearly I need more work than I thought. You and Nat down to tutor me?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky says.

They settle at the table where Pete was sitting, holding on to the official question list for the debate, graciously provided by the host network. Natasha begins explaining that Tony needed to shift his dynamic from 'raging socialist' to 'moderate liberal'—that’s the only way the unity ticket would work. But Bucky’s eyes follow to where Steve had disappeared off to, and he spots him near the exit. 

Sharon walked behind him, and they paused at the door, talking quietly. It looks like Steve says _‘no’_ quite firmly, before Sharon tried to reach for his hand. Concern was evident in the way her brows pulled together, but Steve only yanked his arm away and dove through the door, leaving her standing there, alone. 

After swiping at her cheek, she glances up to make sure no one was looking. It doesn’t seem like anyone is, except Bucky. The two share a shaky smile, and she disappears through the door after her husband. 

***

Bucky had asked Steve over to his hotel room to ‘double down on some of his potential debate responses’, but of course, that had been a rouse. 

Oddly enough, it wasn’t a rouse to cover their new-fangled sex lives, because somehow, they managed to do that stuff without much lying—supply closets, empty conference rooms, under big desks; you name it, they’ve tried it. No, this was a cover to address something else that was bothering Bucky: Sharon. 

They’d left New York for D.C. after their debate practice. That would leave them with the entire evening and the full following morning to solidify their debate strategies. Since they’d taken the new Rogers-Stark 2020 private campaign plane, Bucky and his team had a front-row seat to the Sharon and Steve disaster. 

It’s not like Bucky didn’t notice it happening. It started after the RNC nomination—Steve was being more and more curt with his wife, even though she didn’t seem to do much to deserve it. It wasn’t eyebrow raising—just a little cringe-y to witness. She’d smile at him with love in her eyes one minute, then glare a hole through the side of his head as soon as the cameras lowered. He held her hand down the steps of the plane, but not on the car ride to the hotel. He opened her door for her everywhere they went, but glared at her as she walked through it. 

So, that’s what Bucky brought him here to talk about. 

Only, they didn’t get that far. 

See, the second he stepped into the room, Steve made it clear that he still had every intention of doing the things he promised he would in that closet on Super Tuesday.This was the first opportunity they had to be alone in a hotel room _,_ with a _real_ bed. The door had barely shut behind him before the candidate was stripping out of his clothes. 

Things moved quickly from there, and before Bucky even really knew what was happening, he was on his back in the middle of the big, fluffy sheets, with Steve’s long body covering his. 

They did this often enough now that Bucky could distinguish between Steve’s moods. Sometimes, he was talkative, like he had been all those months ago—babbling praises and cooing at Bucky like a man in love. Sometimes, he was all weird and protective—not giving Bucky a moment to breathe, coddling him with kisses and holding onto his body like he’d float away if he didn’t. And other times, like tonight, he was rough. 

_Really_ rough. 

Almost as if he had something on his mind, but he was pushing it down, electing instead to allow his instincts to take over, driving into Bucky like his very life depended on it. 

“Mhm,” Steve grunts, nipping at Bucky’s collarbones. He had been bouncing his hips against Bucky’s so steadily now that a sheen of sweat was forming on both of them. “Yeah, fucking _take it_ , baby,” 

“Ah—ah, Stevie,” Bucky moaned, snaking his fingers through his hair. 

“Fucking hell,” He groaned out, his hips finally slowing. He pulled away from Bucky’s hands, bracing himself up with one strong arm placed beside Bucky’s face. Slowly, he pulled himself out of Bucky’s body, making the brunet wince at the loss. 

Steve started kissing his way down Bucky’s chest, stopping to flick at his nipples, before sitting back on his heels. He runs a strong hand over Bucky's erection, pumping it twice, then cupping his balls firmly. Bucky writhes against the pillows with soft, whimpering sounds. Then, Steve dips his hand down a bit more, rubbing four fingers against the puffy, slick hole there, in slow deliberate circles. 

Bucky feels a little exposed now, what with the sudden attention Steve was giving him. And, _yes_ , he knows that’s absolutely ridiculous to think, considering Steve’s _face_ had been between his legs earlier, but he couldn’t help it, he slung his arm over his face, hiding. 

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Steve growls, crawling over him again. Then yanks Bucky’s hands up over his head, holding them there while he sank back into that warm, wet heat, and started driving his hips forward at a relentless pace. Bucky wiggles a little, trying to shift his hips just right so he could get off, but Steve's hands still him, "Don't you fuckin' move," 

Bucky moaned at the command, and Steve kisses him hard, one hand holding his wrists together, the other settling possessively on his throat—not squeezing, just sitting there like a hollow threat. 

Not too long after that, Bucky felt himself coming, and it took every ounce of self-restraint not to _scream_ Steve’s name. Soon enough, Steve follows suit with stuttering hips and a deep, possessive groan. And fortunately, he’d worn a condom, so they both got to feel the way Bucky’s body swallowed Steve’s cock and milked every last bit of the orgasm out of him. 

Steve pulled out and rolled over so he wouldn’t squash Bucky into the mattress, and the two of them took a while to catch their breaths. 

“That—don’t get me wrong, that was _nice—_ but that wasn’t why I called you up here.” Bucky hums, his voice still sex-heavy.

“Yeah? You call me up here to yell at me some more?” Steve grunts, peeling himself out of the bed. He snatches his pants and heads towards the en-suite. 

“Maybe.” Bucky says, warningly. “What the hell has gotten into you?” 

“Nothing.” Steve dismisses him. 

“Nothing?” Bucky asks, pulling the sheets around his hips and palming around him in search or his boxers. “S’not nothing, and everyone can see it.” 

Steve re-appears, now with his slacks back on. His chest is still bare though, so Bucky takes a gratuitous look at him. He’s got a wet towel in his hand, and a determined look on his face. He kneels on the edge of the bed.

“Lay back, let me clean you off.” He grunts. 

Bucky felt his cheeks heat up, and slips the towel from his hand, “I—I can handle that.”

Steve grunts, and just busies himself plucking the rest of Bucky’s clothes up from the floor, where he’d peeled them off of him and discarded them earlier. 

“Steve,” Bucky starts carefully, “Is something bothering you?”

He sighs, dropping the clothes at the foot of the bed. “No use in dragging it out, I guess.” He runs a nervous hand through his hair. “Sharon—Sharon thinks I’m cheating on her.” 

Panic settles in Bucky’s bones. He had a million questions. 

_Does she think, or does she know?_

_It was only a matter of time—Natasha had them figured out after their second sex-date._

Bucky blinks once, then twice, then opens his lips to say something, but closes them, wanting to pick his words wisely. He clears his throat nervously, and pulls the sheets closer to his hot skin. Finally, he whispers, “Steve, you _are_ cheating on her.” 

“I know that.” Steve says, and something shifts in his eyes, tinting that beautiful blue more icy. “She doesn’t think it’s you.” 

Bucky’s eyebrows go up. He hadn’t even considered that. Maybe she’d seen him with someone else. Bucky didn’t even think about there being someone else. 

“She thinks it’s a staffer.” He says gently. “The brunette who brings you coffee.” 

“Peggy?” Bucky furrows his eyebrows. “Why would she think—”

“I don’t know, Buck, but she’s driving me fucking crazy.” He says, his voice rising, “And I hate lying to her like this, I really do. She deserves a faithful husband.”

Bucky nods slowly, still not saying anything, in part to let Steve vent, but also in part because he had no fucking clue what to say. His mind was still reeling. 

“I think—I think I want a divorce.” Steve says quietly.

And _that_ makes Bucky reply. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, let’s take a step back, Steve.” Bucky stands up, shuffles into his boxers and then his pants. “Before you blow things _way_ out of proportion, let’s talk about this.”

“Are you talking to me as my campaign manager? Or my mister?” Steve asks, and it hurts Bucky more than it should.

“Both.” He grits his teeth. “You can’t have a divorce. I can’t _spin_ a divorce.” 

“I thought you could spin anything?” 

“I can spin just about anything, but a divorce, right before a general election, for a republican nominee? Jesus Christ, Steve, I’m not _God_.” 

“Right. So I should just keep cheating on my wife? Keep hiding this?” He gestures between the two of them. “I—I can’t keep this up, Bucky.” 

The brunet folds his arms across his chest and says, “Then don’t.” 

“Excuse me?” Steve slips into his shirt. 

“You heard me.” Bucky says, snatching his own shirt up. 

“What are you saying?” Steve gapes at him. “You—you want to stop seeing me?” 

Bucky grumbles under his breath. _No_ , he didn’t want to stop seeing Steve; but clearly their tryst was weighing on his good Christian-boy morals, not to mention tipping off his wife. So _yes_ , they ought to stop seeing each other. “Sharon’s already suspicious, and you just said it yourself, you can’t keep this up, right? Then it’s settled.”

“Do you _want_ to stop seeing me?” Steve repeats, his voice heavy. 

“I—I didn’t say that.” 

“I didn’t think so.” 

Steve finds his shoes, and sits on the edge of the bed, slipping them on, while Bucky’s stood, getting himself dressed and wracking his brain for his next words. 

“You can’t have a divorce,” He decides on that. Straight to the point. “You can be president, or you can leave your wife. You can’t have both, not this late in the game.” 

Steve licks his lips, annoyedly. “I know. You said that already.” 

Before Bucky could respond, a handful of soft knocks sound on his door. Bucky stalks over and looks through the peephole. 

And doesn’t Mrs. Rogers just have _immaculate_ timing. 

“Who is it?” Steve asks, getting to his feet. Bucky darts over to him, smoothing his hair down with far too much force. He glances over him, not finding anything too out of place. “What the hell, who is it?” 

“Your _wife_ ,” Bucky hisses, slipping into his loafers and sliding on his blazer. He almost went to reach for the door handle before remembering, “ _Fuck_ , the bed,” 

He and Steve quickly shake the sheets out and pull them tight, fixing the pillows, as well. Content that the room didn’t look like they’d just fucked each other silly, Bucky goes for the door. 

“Sher,” Bucky greets with a lopsided smile. It pains him to force it. “I’m just about done with him for the day. We’ve just gotten through the last of Cooper’s questions.” 

“I—” She glances over his shoulder at Steve, then back at him with a small smile, and gestures down the hall. “I actually came to see you, James. I’d like your help with something.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, following her out. “Of course,” He doesn’t think twice about leaving Steve behind in his hotel room, nor just how fucking suspicious that would be, he just falls into stride with Sharon as they walk down the hall in quiet.

“This is going to sound—well, it’s going to sound ridiculous,” Sharon breathes a laugh, and Bucky feels his heart _stop_. That is, until she continues, “I’ve been keeping up with the magazines, and I just cannot pick an outfit to wear to the debate tomorrow. I know people will pick it apart anyway. They _always_ do. I wear red, I’m a harlot. I wear blue, I’m a socialist. I figure you probably know what’s best.”

Bucky is quiet for a moment, “Oh—of course,” 

Sharon stops, “Oh God, does it really not matter? I’m sorry, you should get back to Steve. Debate prep is far more important—”

“Hey, hey,” Bucky tuts. “We were—we were just about through, anyways. I’d be happy to help you.” 

She sighs, pushing her long blond locks over her shoulders. “Thank you, James.”

“Bucky.” He nods. “You should call me Bucky. Everyone does at this point.” 

She smiles, and for a moment, Bucky can see why Steve married her. 

They start down the hallway again, and she sighs a bit. “I’m glad he has you, you know?”

“Hm?” Bucky felt his heart drop again.

“He’s been in a pretty foul mood lately.” She shrugs. “Whatever you say to him, it always seems to put him in a better place. You reassure him that this isn’t all in vain, that he has a real shot at it.”

“Right.” Bucky nods, not having _anything_ to say to that that wasn’t downright incriminating. 

“I know you saw us this morning.” She says gently. “He’s been quite... _short_ with me lately. I’m sure it’s just nerves, leading up to the debate.”

“Most likely, yeah.” 

“He never used to be like that, you know?” She says, almost fondly. It breaks Bucky’s heart. “This election is changing him. I knew we’d change, but I guess I was hopeful it would be for the better.” 

“Things will settle soon, I’m sure.” Bucky whispers.

“A small part of me almost wishes he’ll lose.” She admits, “Selfish, I know. But then things could go back to the way they were. If he wins, I don’t know if we’ll survive.”

“Oh Sharon, don’t say that.” Bucky’s voice is quiet. Guilty. 

She doesn’t sound upset, even. Just speaks as though the words had been in her head too long and she needed to put them out into the world.

“He can have his old office back, and I can start practicing again, like we’d always planned to.” 

They settle in front of the door to her and Steve’s suite, but Bucky stops her from opening it, gently taking her hand, “Things will work out.”

She looks up at him, her bright eyes having lost their sparkle a long, long time ago. “I hope so, Bucky.” 

***

“What do you say if they bring up your overseas spending?” Natasha grills. Bucky could barely hear her over the loud chatter of the audience just beyond the stage. 

Tony grins, confident. “Acknowledge it, then explain the effect the previous administration’s embargos have had on the manufacturing industry in the US, then announce our plan to phase out our overseas operations in the next three years.” 

“What do you do if they mention your loss in the democratic primaries?” 

“Make a shitty joke, and admit I believe I can better serve our country in this capacity.” 

A network representative taps Bucky’s shoulder. “Two minutes, Mr. Barnes.” 

“Thank you,” He nods, then turns back to Tony. Steve was across the backstage area, with Sharon, who was diligently fixing his tie, and smoothing out his jacket. He’s got a little scowl on his face, prompting Bucky to ask Tony, “What do you do if Steve starts drowning?” 

“Charm the pants off of Anderson Cooper, and generally repeat his last statement.” Tony nods, and it’s near enough to what they’d been drilling into him all day. 

“Keep him calm.” Bucky instructs. “If you see Wilson or Maximoff setting him up—”

“Fall on the sword. I got it, Bucky.” Tony grins, absolutely bouncing with nervous energy. 

“Alright. Knock ‘em fuckin’ dead, Tones. I’m going to check-in over there.” He excuses himself, and starts over to Steve and Sharon. She ended up wearing red, after all, but Bucky didn’t think it made her look lecherous. He thinks she’s quite gorgeous in crimson.“Nervous?” 

“Not my first rodeo.” Steve says shortly. 

Bucky felt a chill down his spine. Sharon looks at him apologetically. 

“Anything you need before you head out there?” Bucky asks gently. 

“Can’t think of anything, no.”

“Good. You’ve got this. Remember, Maximoff is a hell of a linguist, she’ll try to trip you up. Stick to what we covered in prep, but don’t be afraid to cut either of them down to size.” 

Before Steve could reply, the representative is back, “We need them ready to walk now, Mr. Barnes.” 

“Alright,” Bucky walks the two of them to their marks on the floor, just behind the curtain that hid them from the audience. They could see the podiums—and most intimidatingly, they can see Wilson, Maximoff, and their campaign manager across the stage, opposite them. 

The announcer calls out their names, and the four candidates walk out onto the stage with beaming smiles and coordinated waves. 

They hold their own pretty well, through the first half-hour. It’s a ‘round-table’ type debate, a new format this particular network was trying out, where the candidates stood at their podiums and answered questions directly from the moderator, but also got to ask each other questions, and _well,_ actually _debate_. 

Anthony did surprisingly well. _Insanely_ well. As expected, Maximoff came at his neck right out the gate, accosting him with figures and accusations. Tony managed to keep his cool. He made a little joke which got the audience—and Anderson Cooper—laughing and at ease; then he effectively explained things exactly how Natasha showed him to, leaving everyone with a better understanding of his choices. 

Bucky was practically vibrating with joy. At least he was, until the democratic candidate’s campaign manager made his way over and settled beside him. 

“Old friend,” His husky voice interrupted Bucky’s attention to the debate. 

“M’not your friend, Rumlow.” Bucky sighs, “We both know that.” 

Brock completely ignores Bucky’s jab, “Hell of a job you’re doing with those guys, you know.” 

“I know.” 

Brock laughs, “Mhm. I bet you do.” 

Bucky doesn’t look at him. He didn’t even want to consider what he meant by that. He just honed in on the TV in front of him, showing the live network feed, even if he could see the stage just beside them. It felt better seeing it as the majority of the country was. 

Sam Wilson, all tall, Southern charm, spoke with an air of grace around everything he said. It’s brilliant, the dynamic he and Maximoff have. He’s poised and presidential, and she’s cutthroat and not afraid to face anything head-on. He’s the bark, she’s the bite. Part of Bucky wonders if they’d started off like that, or if Brock had a hand in molding that duo. 

From the grin on Brock’s face, it’s the latter.

“I hope you’re ready to fly back to Brooklyn disappointed,” Brock sings, just as Natasha comes running over to them.

“ _Bucky_ ,” She whispers, “I think we’ve got an avalanche.” 

She’d been watching live from the curtain, and the delay meant that he was only just seeing what she had a few moments ago. 

“I’ll see you around, Buck!” Brock hums, stalking off to where he’d come from. 

On the TV, Bucky saw it. 

Wilson had mentioned race-oriented police brutality while answering another question a moment ago. Bucky hadn’t thought anything of it. But in an instant, Wanda had picked the topic up again, balled it up in rhetoric, and tossed it right into Steve’s lap. 

It shouldn’t have been difficult, but they hadn’t covered anything _close_ to race-related issues in prep, and Steve absolutely fumbles it. 

_“It’s hardly my place to make assumptions about communities I don’t belong to.”_ Steve says firmly. 

Bucky felt like a stone settled in his gut. _Oh, no_. Sharon appears beside them, and the three of them look up at the screen, waiting to see it unfold. Natasha was right. It _was_ an avalanche, because his statement, not too bad on its own, was snowballing quickly.

_“You don’t intend to address the discriminatory actions of this nation’s police forces?”_ Wanda quickly shot back. _“It’s a valid fear in everyday life for millions of Americans. Not to mention the racial misconduct of the policemen of your very own NYPD—Governor Rogers, do you not see anything wrong with that system?”_

_“Let’s not make assumptions about what I do and don’t believe.”_ Steve tries, and fails, to keep the tone light.

Maximoff, however, was far more efficient at controlling the narrative. _“Black and brown people are at a much, much higher risk of being victim to hate crimes in this country, and you have no opinion on it? How do you plan to represent the thirty percent of Americans that don’t look like you?”_

“That’s it—” Bucky shouts, “Get him off of that stage, _now!”_

“We can’t!” Natasha says, throwing her hands up. “You pull him out of there now and it looks like he’s running from it.” 

“We _are_ fucking running from it,” Bucky snaps.

_“Hey now,”_ Tony’s voice is smooth, and solid. Bucky holds his breath. For the love of God, don’t fuck this one up, Tones. _“To reiterate what Governor Rogers said earlier, I think we can all agree that these crimes are a very serious, very important problem in this country. There’s a lot of hate out there right now, a lot of un-American ideologies and bigotry that have no place here. It’s a difficult subject to discuss, especially when you—as you put it—‘don’t look like’ amember of that community. Needless to say, I don’t have to be a person of color to understand that our country has a police brutality problem. I don’t have to be Jewish to see that we’ve got an anti-Semitism problem.”_

“Holy shit,” Sharon breathes. Bucky doesn’t take the chance. He’s still got his fingers crossed and his lungs burn, begging for a breath.

Tony doesn’t once look away from Wanda, his words calm and collected as he picks apart her accusation. _“As Governor, Steve has not only condemned those sorts of actions, but has seen the responsible parties brought swiftly to justice. He’s put forward legislation to further enforce the security of marginalized New Yorkers—including the members of the Jewish community, immediately following the anti-Semitic attacks this past Hanukkah—and I have no doubt he’ll continue to do so as President.”_

A chorus of applause comes from the crowd and Tony finally turns away from Wanda, smiling a charming, Playboy smile at them all.

The white-haired moderator smiles as the camera cuts back to him, “Well said, Mr. Stark. Unfortunately, that’s all the time we have tonight, let’s have a round of applause for the candidates?” 

The applause rises in volume, and fanfare plays as the candidates shake each other’s hands, and make their way off stage. 

Steve is absolutely fucking _fuming_. He approaches them with so much anger, it looks like his hands are shaking. With one angry tug, he pulls his tie off, “What the hell was that? That came out of fucking nowhere!” 

“It’s alright,” Bucky says, but even he is unsure. Steve had fumbled for sure, but _Tony?_ Tony just might have saved their asses. “Talia?” 

She’s hunched over, looking at her iPad. “Interns are on it, tweaking the polls before they go out as we speak. Doesn’t look to bad on the socials—people don’t seem too upset about the slip. Tony’s already trending.” 

Clint appears out of nowhere, like he always did, head bent over his iPad as well. “It’s good, boss, we’re good. The general consensus online seems to be in our favor. It was clear that Maximoff was trying to corner him.” 

Bucky lets out a relieved breath, only to be cut off by Natasha, “Wilson is trending, too.” She groans, “Wilson-Stark 2020 is trending.” 

“This is unbelievable,” Steve groans, causing them all to look up at him. Sharon reaches for his arm, but he yanks it away and stalks off. 

“The hell has got him so wound up lately?” Tony bristles, “I just saved his ass out there.” 

“It’s not you,” Both Bucky and Sharon say at the same time. They look at each other, and Sharon nods, gesturing to where he’d went. “Go on.” 

Bucky's lips press together in a tight line, and he nod lightly, then turns to start barking instructions. “Talia, start planting seeds with the press. Something along the lines of Maximoff catching him off guard. I don’t care what you’ve got to do. I want a front page _somewhere_ calling her out for it. She can’t just weaponize race like that, not if I can help it. Fix it.” He turns to Tony. “You were wonderful out there, but do _not_ open your mouth to _any_ reporter in the next twelve hours. Got it?” 

“You got it, boss.” 

“Good. Find Pepper, and charm the fuck out of anyone wearing a CNN lanyard.” Bucky instructs. “Sharon, are you alright to join them?” 

“Yes, of course.” She nods.

“Good.” He turns to Clint. “Barton. I want Brock Rumlow’s tires slashed.” 

“Consider it done.” Clint says, without even looking up from his iPad. 

“Good. Alright. Good job here tonight everyone,” Bucky nods, then takes off where Steve had headed, determined to talk bad mood right out of his system, so he could re-join his wife and running mate, and salvage the rest of the night.


	3. “It’s no fun fucking with you if you don’t fuck back.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky deals with the aftermath of an unprecedented statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeeeeey, I'm back! Thanks for the comments and kudos on the last chapter--they really do mean a lot and keep me writing! 
> 
> there's loooots of drama this chapter, lol!

This is the part of campaigning that Bucky genuinely detests. 

For the last few weeks, they’d been re-trekking the campaign trail, and hosting and attending small-town events. Town halls, county fairs, potlucks—all sorts of things Bucky didn’t normally have to endure. His usual liberal candidates didn’t have to prove their worth in barbecue rub recipes, but apparently, it was a deciding factor amongst rural conservatives.

What is _was_ is a great big waste of fucking time, but for as much as he hated it, Bucky knew it was necessary. So, he tagged along, eating far too much fucking pie and meeting Midwestern Americans he wouldn’t remember in a month’s time. 

He would be of much more use if he were back at campaign headquarters in New York, but here he was, because _someone_ had to keep Tony Stark in check. At least, that was the excuse he kept parroting out to everyone who asked what a big-shot like him was doing in Middle-of-Nowhere, Wisconsin.

“You look like someone’s pissed you off.” Bucky is snapped out of his thoughts by Clint’s deep voice. He looks up at the dirty blond. 

Sweat clung to his brow, but not to the fabric of his suit—and boy was it still odd seeing Clint Barton in a _suit_. At this point of the campaign, Bucky’s entire team wore suits almost everyday; but it was _especially_ odd to see Clint—the man who you called when you needed things done by less-than-legal means—in a two-piece suit.

As distinguished as it made them all look, it also it made it too easy to spot them amidst all the locals here—and Bucky begins to wish he’d planned this a bit better. 

Their campaign bus stopped just outside of Milwaukee where Steve and his wife were scheduled to hold a Town Hall with the local mayor. Bucky didn’t bat an eye when scheduling it—it would look good, and the reporters they’d brought along with them on the bus would put out enough good press to see them through to the next small town. 

What he did _not_ expect was just how _small-town_ this small town was. 

They’d set it up as best as they could, Bucky imagines—a stage and a sea of folding chairs in the town’s high school gymnasium. It filled up very quickly with townspeople. Everyone was casually dressed in the audience—jeans and _far_ too many flannels for Bucky’s taste—but Bucky and the rest of the campaign are all in their city-slicker suits. 

At least Steve and Sharon looked less austere. On the little stage, Steve’s wearing an ordinary-looking, blue gingham shirt, and Sharon a soft, flowy dress of the same shade. They looked absolutely darling together up there. Fresh out of a goddamned Ralph Lauren commercial.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Clint snaps in front of his face, stealing his attention. “Buddy, where are you today? Did you hear anything I said?” 

Bucky blinked at him a few times before admitting, “No.” He sighs, loud enough to make Clint roll his eyes. “I doubt it was important.” 

“What's not important?” Natasha appears behind him. 

“Anything Clint ever says.” Bucky sighs, and lets his eyes roam across the pond of people again. Joe Rogers was sitting behind the young Rogers, his arm draped precariously over the back of his wife’s chair. 

He didn’t look happy. _He didn’t even look_ —His eyes snap back to Clint, furiously.

“Did you let him drink last night?”

Clint’s hands go up, “Whoa, whoa, I didn’t. I followed him, just like you said to. He didn’t have a drop of liquor all evening—and I took all of the little bottles from his mini-fridge, too.” 

“ _Clearly_ , you missed something.” Bucky snaps. Beside him, Natasha quirks an eyebrow. He ignores her. “Look at him—if he wasn’t sitting down I doubt he’d be able to hold himself upright.” 

“And somehow that’s my fault?” Clint narrows his eyes. “You told me not to let him drink—I followed him all goddamned night. What was I supposed to do? Kick Mrs. Rogers out of their bed and sleep next to him?” 

Bucky grits his teeth together so hard, they could shatter.

“Listen man, I don’t know what’s up with you, but you’ve been _way_ on-edge. It’s beginning to drive us all a bit fuckin’ crazy,” Barton lowers his voice. “You need to get laid or something.” 

Bucky blinks at him with so much fury the blond shudders. _He did need to get laid_ , but was that going to stop him from snapping at Clint? Absolutely not. 

Clint must have read the look on his face, because he quickly raises his hands in defeat and nods. “Look, I’ll stop you, before you says something you regret.” Without even waiting for Bucky’s response, he reaches up and slips his hearing aids out, dropping them in his breast pocket. “Better?” 

It was not better. As a matter of fact, it only made Bucky even _angrier_. Natasha, however, was far better as reading her boss, so she quickly shoulders Clint away, and turns back to him. 

“He’s right.” 

“I should fucking fire him.”

“You could, but then who would you have breaking into buildings and slashing people’s tires? Plus, he’s right.” She frowns. 

He looks her up and down. Only then did he realize that her black pencil skirt wasn’t a skirt—but a dress. She never wore dresses. “I think you’re small enough to slip into houses. Probably even strong enough to slash tires.” 

She rolls her eyes at him. “Whatever you two are doing, it isn’t working.” 

“What, Clint?” 

“No.” 

Now _he_ rolls his eyes. “There is no ‘we’, so we aren’t doing _anything_.” 

“I think that might just be the problem.” She says with a little smile. 

She knew.  _How the fuck did she always know?_

Clint returns, and seeing the look on Bucky’s face, decides to sign his declaration instead of speaking it. _“We’ve got a problem._ ” 

“What now?” 

_“The busses are down.”_

“What do you mean the busses are down?” He snaps.

_“The busses—”_ He sighs, speaking again, albeit a bit slurred without his aids, “—I was going for sarcasm. The busses are _down_ , but I’m sure Rumlow had something to do with that. Want me to hit back?” 

Rumlow never was noteworthy when it came to original thoughts—the Wilson-Maximoff campaign had been a few stops behind theirs for the last few towns, swooping in after their hard work to snatch the remaining independent voters. 

Bucky looks up, scanning the outskirts of the assembled crowd. If that fucker was striking now, it meant he had something planned, and so he wouldn’t be too far away. The asshole loves to gloat.

Of course, he is nearby, standing near one of the gymnasium’s exits, with his arms folded across his chest, and a smug smile on his lips. 

Bucky felt his anger flare up again, with a harsh sigh, he shakes his head. “No, I’ll handle this.” 

***

Steve hated this. _Hated_ it. 

Beside him, Sharon scrunched her face up adorably at the lady’s question. It had been yet another version of _“When will you two have kids?_ ”, which they’d been getting through the entire event. 

Through the entire _campaign_.

This was supposed to be a town hall. They were _supposed_ to be asking him questions about his potential presidency. Foreign and domestic policy, education systems, infrastructure. Things that _mattered_. Instead, he and Sharon spent the last hour tacitly avoiding their plans for parenthood.

This question had been—yet again—directed towards his wife. Why were the people of Wisconsin so invested in their personal lives?

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a wave of black making its way to the stage. Once it reaches the edge, out of the glare of the stage lights, he can make it out. _James_. 

He’s in that Armani suit that Steve had decided was his favorite. It hugged him _gorgeously,_ covering those soft pale thighs of his snugly _—_ but he couldn’t think about that right now. A hard-on, in the middle of a town hall turned baby-planning party, wouldn’t be a good look for him. 

From the bottom of the stage steps, he beckons Steve over with a long, lean finger. 

And if there was _anyone_ that could make Steve walk off of a stage without a second thought, it was Bucky. He squeezes Sharon’s hand, which she quickly lets go of, and excuses himself. 

Walking up to Bucky was quickly becoming one of the hardest things for him to do. No matter how he braced himself, Bucky always, _always_ caught him off guard. The soft scent of his floral cologne, the warm smell of his vanilla shampoo whenever his hair was down. Not to mention the way Bucky _looked_. 

God, he looked so _perfect_ , all the time. He was a dream of big gray eyes and impossibly long lashes, perfectly pressed suits, and smooth, pale skin. It always makes Steve turn pink, because one look at those pink, rounded lips of his reminds him just how round and pink other parts of him were, too. 

Bucky, it seemed, was much less bothered by Steve’s presence. His tone is bureaucratic, clerical, and far too cold for Steve’s liking. 

“I know you don’t want to, but I need you guys to stay on stage a bit longer.” 

“Is something wrong?” Steve asks.

“Yes.” He says dully, “I’m handling it.” 

“Right.” Steve can’t help but bristle at just how easily Bucky could dismiss him. “Should I be concerned?” 

“Not if I’m handling it.” 

Steve grinds his teeth. “How long?” 

“At least a half hour.” He blinks those long lashes, and Steve thinks he might fall over. 

“What are we supposed to talk about for another half-hour?” Steve grunts. “We’ve beaten the family thing way past dead, now.” 

“I don’t know, Steve,” Bucky says, looking away distractedly. He tries to follow where Bucky’s gaze went, but the brunet continued speaking, “I don’t care, think of something. Just keep going.” 

And just like that, he turned and walked away. He’s stood there, blinking at the now empty spot, until he hears Sharon’s voice through the mic system.

“Stevie?” She coos, and he turns, smiling like he has been all fucking month. 

“Yes, love.” He makes his way back to her side, talking into her microphone. “Looks like we have a bit more time to spend with you lovely folks.” His voice is soft and sweet, and he’s quickly rewarded with a host of photo flashes. 

Beyond them, at the back of the dinky gym, he sees Bucky make his way across the rear, settling near one of those giant doors, beside another man. He’s seen him before. 

_Brock Rumlow_ , Wilson’s manager. 

He can’t help but grit his teeth together. 

“Is everything alright?” Sharon whispers, away from the mic. 

“Yeah.” He breathes. “James is _handling_ it.” 

***

“If you wanted me to come over and say hello, you didn’t have to inconvenience the entire campaign staff.” Bucky says, settling beside Rumlow with a huff. “What did you do?”

Brock doesn’t look away from the stage, but a slow smile takes over his lips. “Would you have come over and said hello, if I hadn’t?”

“No.” Bucky doesn’t even blink. 

“Then there you have it.” 

“What did you do?”

“ _I_ didn’t do anything.” He shrugs, and Bucky can’t help but notice the heft of his shoulders when he does. “But _someone_ may have snipped your fuel lines.” 

“And is there a purpose for vandalizing a million dollar campaign bus, or could you just not help yourself?” 

“A little of both,” Brock says, turning to face him, finally. 

And _fuck him…_ was he always that handsome? He’s got a head of thick, dark hair, and a set of chocolate eyes so deep, they look like they could suck him in. He’s sporting a bit of facial hair, which is extremely uncommon for him—he was normally clean shaven, _perfectly_ shaven—and Bucky can’t help but find the new stubble oddly attractive.

“Listen, sunshine,” Brock says, his voice a delicious rumble. “It’s no fun fucking with you if you don’t fuck back.” 

Bucky quirks an eyebrow. That was an interesting choice of words. “The Rogers want a clean campaign.” 

“You don’t.” 

“It’s not my call.” 

“C’mon, Buck. It’s _me_ you’re talking to, here. It’s always your call.” He rolls his eyes. “That big blond dumbass has made you all soft. The Bucky I know would have cut me down to size a _long_ time ago.” 

A twinge of something bitter touches Bucky with how Brock describes Steve, but he pushes it down and straightens his posture. “If you keep pushing my buttons, I just might have to, Brock.” 

Never one to roll over without a fight, Brock straightens up off of the wall, too, his full height crowding over Bucky easily. He smells like cigarettes and Givenchy. It makes Bucky shiver. 

“Then I guess I’ll keep pushing your buttons.” He smiles, and taps his balled-up fist gently against the curve of Bucky’s jaw with a click of his teeth. 

“Too fucking close, Rumlow.” Natasha, once again, appears clear out of nowhere, “Go—before I have to hurt you.” 

“Jeez, Red. We’re just two old friends catching up.” He puts his palms up in mock surrender. “Call off your hounds, Barnes.” 

“We aren’t friends.” Bucky takes a quick glance at the stage, then back at Brock. Something still wasn’t right. It didn’t make sense— _why would he want to keep them on-stage?_

“Fine,” He sighs, “Well, then I’ll just be going then. You know. On our fully-functioning campaign bus.” 

“Wait,” Bucky calls. “That can’t be it.” 

Rumlow arches a confused eyebrow.

“The bus.” He clarifies. “That can’t be it.”

Brock smiles. 

“That’s not fair,” Bucky glares at him. “How am I supposed to fuck back, Brock?” 

Both Natasha and Brock’s brows go up in surprise; Brock’s quickly lower and a smug smile crawls onto his face. 

“I’d take a good look at your press pit, Buck.” He nods towards them at the bottom of the stage, dutifully taking photos and recording the Rogers’ responses. “If you ever _really_ want to fuck, you know where to find me. You look like you could use it.” 

Bucky doesn’t answer him; he’s too busy looking over the press pit. He’d put them all there. His favorites—Susan from _The_ _New York Times_ , Charlotte from _The Boston Post_ , Michael from _The_ _Washington Herald_ , amidst all the others they’d brought with them. 

He’d handpicked them all, and only after thorough vetting and _very_ personalized threats to their lives and or careers, should they decide to compromise this campaign _._ There was no way one of them would turn on him—not this far into the game. 

Distantly, he realizes Natasha is scolding him, “—and, so help me God, if you are sleeping with that _sleaze_ , I will end you—”

“— _Talia_.” Bucky feels panic wearing at the edges of his mind. “Is there anyone in the press pit you don’t recognize?” 

She glances over them quickly. “No. Just the local news team.” 

Then, he spots her. 

Small and unassuming, a blonde he’s never seen before. “Who’s that? Blondie. Black dress.” 

Natasha squints, “I don’t know—did we invite any local reporters?” 

“No. Just the news.” Bucky starts forward, but it’s too late—Sharon had just called on her to take her question. 

“This is for you, Governor Rogers.” She says, her voice soft and sweet. Steve perks up—it’s the first question directed at him in what—a half hour? “How do you feel about the twenty percent of Americans that feel as though you and your wife are pandering to families?” 

For a split second, it’s so quiet, Bucky can hear the gym’s old roof creak. Then, barrage of camera shutters go off at once, capturing the stunned look on Steve and Sharon’s faces. 

“I’m—I’m sorry, what?” Steve’s voice drops low. Defensive. 

“No, _fucking_ _hell_ ,” Bucky scrubs his palm over his face, “Tasha—”

“—m’on it,” She says, taking off like a shot out of hell towards the live cameras.

The blonde reporter only looks up at them and repeats herself. “You two are only very recently married—and I hate to bring up the past, but Governor you’ve had a rocky connection with the press when it comes to discussing your past relationships. As far as we know, you have no dating history beyond your current wife. So, there is a considerable portion of your base that questions the legitimacy of your marriage.” 

Steve clears his throat, looking for Bucky in the crowd for some— _any—_ guidance. Only Bucky didn’t have any to offer. For once, Brock had really, completely blindsided him. The panic settled in deeper with every second that passed that Steve didn’t speak. 

“You made it three terms as a single, uncoupled governor, then out of nowhere, a marriage right before announcing a presidential bid. What do you say to the people who think your family—your wife and the future children you claim you both want—is just a way pandering votes from Americans who value families?” 

Just when Bucky thinks Steve’s silence is going to make him pass out, Sharon gently slips the mic from his hand and smiles sweetly. 

“Hi.” She hums, “What’s your name?” 

“Cindy. Cindy Holmes, _Breitbart News_.” 

“Right. Cindy.” Sharon takes a soft breath, “When I first met my husband, I had a whole lot of the same concerns it seems you do. Steve is— _unlike_ most men. He’d focused on his career for so long that he hardly made time for these sorts of relationships; and when he did, he kept them a very much _private_ affair.”

“Right, well—” Cindy tries but Sharon talks over her without much heed.

“—but when we met, we realized there wasn’t anyone else we wanted to spend the rest of our lives with.” She looks back at him, smiling fondly. “We haven’t had kids yet because we want to bring them into a stable, loving home—campaigning across the country was hardly the time to be chasing behind toddlers.” She breathes a laugh, gaining a few from the crowd as well. “This isn’t some sort of rouse—or an attempt to _pander_ or swindle the American people.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Steve says over her shoulder, barely reaching the mic. 

Bucky lets out a sigh of relief, only to have it rinsed away by what happens next.

Sharon pulls Steve’s big palm over the front of her dress, settling on her belly and smiles, placing hers atop his. The camera flashes go haywire again. “We were going to wait to announce it, but I suppose it can’t be helped with how quickly rumors seem to spread, you all should probably know that we _are_ expecting.” 

It’s barely noticeable—but Bucky sees it. The way Steve flinches at her words. He sees Natasha reappear in his peripheral, but he can’t stop to listen to her. The roar of the crowd's applause deafens him, and his eyes stay locked at the hands pressed firmly against her stomach. 

“Bucky— _Bucky!_ ” Natasha shouts. Distantly, he realizes Clint has joined them too. “ _Boss_ , what do we do?” 

“Wrap it up, get them—get them off—off the stage. Do it quietly.” Bucky doesn’t notice, but his hands are shaking. It isn’t panic. He isn’t _scared_ anymore. He’s angry. Fucking _furious._ “Get them to the hotel, I want them sent straight to the suite. Clear the _entire_ fucking floor. Campaign takes no questions, makes no statements.” 

“Got it.” Comes from both of them, and they start off in opposite directions. 

Amidst the flashes of the lights he sees Steve scanning the crowd. Bucky hopes— _prays_ —that he isn’t looking for him. 

***

Bucky puts it off as long as he can. They’d been in the suite for all of five minutes, and he’s sure if he doesn’t go in there, someone will end up getting hurt. 

Inside, the beautifully crafted couple he’d sent out onto that stage a few hours ago, is completely torn apart. 

Sharon is beet red from having yelled so much, and Steve is panting from having done the same. Steve’s shirt is rumpled where it seemed two small fists had been clutching at it. His face is red too—but only one side, where he’d clearly been slapped. 

Bucky takes a breath—even though his entire body was _vibrating_ with anger, he knew it was misplaced—and clearly, he needed to be the level-headed one of the trio.

"Isn't this why we're out here in the first place? We came out to the middle of nowhere to _avoid_ shit like this from happening," Steve shouts.

"And what, you think I had some hand in it?" Sharon snaps back. 

"I didn't—that's not what I fucking said, Sharon!"

Bucky clears his throat, making both of them look up at him. They hadn't even noticed him enter. His voice is barely a whisper, “We didn’t talk about that announcement.” 

“ _We_ didn’t talk about that announcement!” Steve shouts gesturing between he and Sharon. “Of all the things to say—”

“— _‘all the things to say’_?” Sharon shouts back, “You sure had a lot to say up on that stage, standing there staring at her like the question would answer its- _fucking_ -self!” 

“—guys,” Bucky tries, but he’s easily spoken over. 

“You could have said anything— _anything_ —”

“ _You_ could have said anything, Steven!” She shouts, pointing a hard finger into his chest. “She came at _us,_ Steve, at our _marriage!_ Does that mean nothing to you? You just fucking _stood_ there!” 

“I didn’t expect the _only_ question directed at me to be a fucking smear tactic!” 

“— _guys,_ ” 

“And where the fuck were _you_?” Sharon finally turns her attention to Bucky. 

“Do _not_ make this about him,” Steve snaps, “This is about _you_ , telling a reporter you’re fucking pregnant! We didn’t talk about this, Sharon, and now we can’t take it back! It’s all anyone’s going to be talking about! Did you even consider that?” He throws his hands up, “We’re _weeks_ away from the general election, and now everything we try to put out is going to be masked by your pregnancy.” 

“So, you _are_ pregnant?” Bucky finally asks the question that was burning his lips to come out. 

“Of course not!” Steve shouts.

“Do we _look_ like we’ve been close enough to conceive a fucking child, James?” She snaps, “Maybe we could be, if his attention wasn’t somewhere else.” 

Steve lets out a loud, frustrated growl. “Oh my God, not this again,” He swipes both hands over his face, and sits on the edge of the bed. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not sleeping with Margret!” 

“I know you aren’t sleeping with Peggy, because you’re sleeping with _him_!” She gestures at Bucky with both hands. 

Quiet finally falls over the room, and Bucky’s eyes widen. He thinks he might just faint from all this excitement. 

“No,” Bucky’s voice is quiet, and he shakes his head unconvincingly. 

Steve’s voice is shaky, “No, Sharon, it’s not like that—”

“Oh, _‘it’s not like that’_ is it?” She glances between them, “Just _stop_. Stop lying, we’re well past this.” She rakes her hand over her head, completely defeated. “I’ve _seen_ you. You two disappear together, and come back smelling like sweat and sex—I’m not some dumb little girl. You two have been fucking since the campaign started!” 

Bucky’s chest aches, and he says it before he realizes. “We stopped.” They both look at him, so he adds, “We stopped—we haven’t—not since the second debate. It’s been months. I’m sorry.”

Steve makes a face, “Don’t apologize to her—” 

“I’m sorry, Sharon,” Bucky cuts him off, “I swear—we stopped. _Everything_ —all of it.” 

Sharon gets this look in her eye. It isn’t angry—it’s solemn. Suddenly, she doesn’t look angry. Just— _annoyed_. Her voice is quiet when she says. “I know.” She takes a breath. “I can tell. You’ve both been miserable.” Then a sigh, “Whole lot of a good your abstinence has been doing for you.” 

Bucky doesn’t look at Steve. He can’t bear it. Instead he keeps his eyes locked on Sharon, who seems far more in control of her emotions. 

“I’m done here, for now. I got angry, I needed to yell—needed to hit someone.” She nods, “I’ve been pulling my weight around here—I just prematurely _impregnated_ myself to save a town hall meeting.” She glares over at Bucky with hard, guarded eyes. “The _least_ you could do is spend a few of your nights under him.” 

“I—” Bucky’s voice breaks off in a tangle of guilt and shame.

“I’m going to calm down.” She says, making for the door, her voice a clear, stark warning, “You two need to fucking _figure yourselves out._ ” 

Bucky’s eyes settle on the floor, processing everything that just transpired. Yet another person had figured them out—even after months of keeping to himself, he’d still made things painfully obvious. 

He just _ruined_ a marriage. 

It was one thing to do it _objectively,_ to separate people for his own political gain, but to be thrust in the middle of an affair, to have his _own_ emotions so messily tangled up in things—he didn’t know how to handle it. He need _to be_ handled. 

He hears the door click shut behind him, and watches Steve dart to his feet and start towards him.

“ _No_ , Steve,” Bucky whispers. He glances over his shoulder—Sharon really had left them. That makes him even more nervous. He was slowly losing control—of this campaign, of his candidate, of his _staff_. Not to mention of _himself;_ every inch of his body wanted to apologize to Steve. The way he’s treated him these past few months has been downright neglectful, and he knows it.

“She’s right, Buck,” Steve says gently, “We need to talk about us, first.” 

“No, we don’t. This—” Bucky takes another step back, gesturing between the two of them. “—this is dead, Steve. What we need to talk about is the fact that you need to put a baby in Sharon, like, _no_ w. Or Fox will have a fucking field day with you when nine months go by and there’s no kid. _”_

_“_ I’m not talking about Sharon or the baby she made up, James.” Steve yells, and it’s so sudden, it makes Bucky flinch. He takes a breath, “I’m talking about us. _Us_ , Bucky. Can we not just talk about us?” 

“What _us_?” An empty laugh slips out of Bucky, “This was _sex,_ Steve. You are _married!_ ” 

“I’m not talking about the sex!” 

Bucky can only look at him, blinking out at the bright blue eyes that shook with anger. “What?”

“I’m talking about us,” He says, exasperated. “I—we were _friends_ , Bucky. We would talk for hours, just you and me. You kept me grounded.You had a vision for me, for this _presidency_. You said we’d do all these—these great things, Bucky. And now you’re walking away from me before the fucking campaign is even over, I feel like I’m losing sight of everything we thought we could do. I feel like I can’t even remember why I chose to run for this fucking office.”

Bucky watches him as he paces up and down, restless. Then, he stops, sitting on the edge of the bed again, with a huff. He laces his long fingers through his hair, pads of his fingers swiping over his scalp. 

“Now we can’t even _talk_ to each other anymore.” Steve finally speaks again.

“No, we can’t.” Bucky says quietly, making Steve look up at him again with a fidgety expression. “We can’t _talk_ , and we can’t be _friends_ , because just look at where it landed us.” 

“Is that what you think this is?” Steve drops his hands to his knees. “Is that what you think I want? Just sex?”

Bucky looks away. 

See, he was hoping Steve didn’t take things here. 

_“Is it?”_ Steve barks, rising to his feet. 

“Well, how can it be anything else!” Bucky snaps back. 

“How? _How?_ ” Steve stalks close, crowding Bucky with his scent—that clean pine of his shampoo, the sandalwood of his cologne. “You think if I just wanted sex, I would look for it from someone on my campaign? You think I’d jeopardize my marriage—jeopardize the _election—_ if this was just about sex?”

“It _is_ just about sex,” Bucky tries to say, but Steve only comes closer, and now, his chest is right in front of Bucky’s face. He doesn’t know what Steve means to do, getting this close; he has a hard time thinking he’d want to hurt him, but he still flinches when their clothes brush against each other’s. 

“Right. I’m supposed to believe that’s all you want out of this?” Steve says hotly. “Clearly, you can get sex anywhere you want.” 

Bucky felt heat rise up his neck, and for once in Steve’s presence, it isn’t from excitement, “ _Excuse me?”_ He snaps. 

“Whats-His-Fucking-Name, on Wilson’s campaign. That’s what he’s for, isn’t he?” Steve says, his voice hard and accusatory. “I see the way he looks at you—”

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. 

He reared his hand back and clapped his open palm cleanly on Steve’s cheek. 

He knows he doesn’t _have_ to. He doesn’t _owe_ Steve any explanations, yet it comes anyway, “I am _not_ sleeping with Rumlow!” 

“Bullshit.” Steve grunts, causing Bucky to lift his hand up again, intent on slapping him once more, b ut Steve catches his wrist. 

“No,” Bucky breathes, but his voice hitches. He pushes at Steve, but it’s a weak attempt, not even moving the rock-hard chest. He doesn’t know _why_ Steve’s words hurt him so much, but he was suddenly aware of the weight on his chest and the lump in his throat. “ _No,”_

“Look me in the eye and tell me you aren’t sleeping with him.” Steve damn near growls.

Bucky looks at him with glassy eyes. “I’m not sleeping with him. I’m not sleeping with anyone.” He feels that heavy, stifling feeling take over his face, the sting of tears before they came. “That shouldn’t even matter to you—” 

Steve cuts him off. He kisses him so hard, they stumble backward until they thunk into the door. With heavy, hard hands, Steve yanks his legs up around his waist. They shouldn't. They really, _really_ shouldn't, Bucky knows. Hell, Steve knows, too, but it doesn't stop him—neither of them will want to deal with the repercussions of what they're about to do, but _goddamn_ did it feel good to finally do it again. Who would take them seriously after this? Sharon, Natasha—even fucking _Clint_ wouldn't be able to look at him the same way again. 

Bucky felt of the guilt and shame crash over him at once, but he couldn't _imagine_ asking Steve to stop. 

No, he opened his mouth for Steve’s tongue. He spread his legs and arched into the blond without a moment’s hesitation. It was like Steve’s skin, pressed up against his, drained all the sticky, frustrating feelings clean out of his brain, leaving behind the raw heat he knew only Steve could quell. 

“You’re mine, _mine_ _,”_ Steve groans against his skin. “D’you fucking hear me, Bucky?”

Bucky didn’t answer him—it had been months since he’d touched him like this, and he could only think about the slide of Steve’s skin over his, so he was pawing roughly at the buttons of Steve’s shirt. 

Steve was not happy being ignored. He put a big hand on Bucky’s throat, causing the the back of the his head to thud dully against the door, and groans, “Did you hear me?” 

He nods. He nods so hard he disorients himself. “Yes, yes, _fuck_. Just touch me, please,”

Steve drops his legs only long enough to tear down the front of Bucky’s shirt, sending buttons everywhere. “Oh, I’m going to touch you, alright.” 

Now Steve had been rough with Bucky before, but the way he made the promise sent a spike of something fearful down his spine. It wasn’t _really_ fear; he was so sure Steve wouldn’t actually hurt him, but he can’t help the little shiver he has at the prospect of being under Steve again, completely at his mercy. 

“I hate the way he looks at you, Buck,” Steve says, as he yanks Bucky up into his arms again. Bucky had barely clasped onto his shoulders, narrowly avoiding falling backwards and onto the carpet, but just as swiftly as he’d been lifted, Steve tossed him on the bed. “I fuckin’ hate it. He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat. Like he can just snap his fingers and have you.” 

Bucky starts to reply, but Steve gets a firm grip on his ankle, yanking him closer to the edge of the bed, and starts pulling his pants off. The brunet leaps to undo his buckle, but Steve yanks on them so hard that the belt strained against his hips, and the buckle popped clean off of the leather. 

“Steve!” Bucky can’t help his gasp, but it’s quickly put in the past when Steve crawls over him. 

“I don’t care.” He murmurs, leaving hot, wet kisses—if you could call the open-mouthed half-bites _kisses_ —all the way up Bucky’s torso. 

His body is so hot, so _heavy,_ that Bucky quickly forgets all about the Armani belt Steve just ruined. They hadn’t done this, hadn’t been together like this in _so_ long, but it’s like muscle memory how their bodies settled against each-other, how Steve’s lips lit the same fires they had before, how Bucky keened and lifted his hips, searching for the friction he craved. 

Steve, however, was far less spacey than Bucky. No, he seemed to be on a mission to tear Bucky apart, touch by touch. When Bucky tries to slip his fingers in those blond locks, Steve’s quick to snatch his wrists together and slam them into the mattress above his head. 

“Steve,” Bucky breathes, startled by the sudden move _and_ how Steve was now at his eye level, looking at him as though he could eat him alive. “Let me touch you,” 

“No,” Steve says hotly, bringing their lips together for a hot, wet kiss. He pulls away with a line of spit still connecting them. 

“Please?” Bucky whines, trying to pull his arms free. His attempt only caused Steve’s grip to tighten. “Why not?” 

“Because you seem to have it in your head that you don’t need me,” Steve breathes, tipping his head and licking the side of Bucky’s neck. Bucky can feel his pulse quicken under Steve’s tongue, and it makes his hips lift again. “So now I have show you _just_ how much you do. How long do you think you’ll last?” 

“Steve?” Bucky whines and lifts his hips again, only this time, Steve cuts his word short with another kiss, and uses his free hand to pin those wayward hips of his right against the mattress. “ _Steve_ ,” 

With another nip to his collar bone Steve demands, “How _long_ , Bucky?” 

“I don’t know!” Bucky finally manages, his voice strained. Steve’s knee slips up between his legs, brushing his erection gently. “I don’t know, Steve—too long, if you don’t _move_ —”

“ _No,_ ” Steve says hotly, and Bucky catches his eyes again. They’re dark, insanely dark, full of lust in a way Bucky’s never seen them before. It makes him moan. Steve continues, “I’m going to make you _beg_ for it, Buck. I’m going to remind you just how good _I_ can make you feel.” 

Bucky’s listening to him—distantly. The sound of his voice was more than enough to make him float away into that thick, spacey place Steve sent him whenever they fucked like this. He’d heard his little threat, and oddly enough, Bucky hopes he makes good on it. He didn’t want to feel guilty for wanting Steve, for craving how he played his body like his favorite instrument.

“You got that, Bucky?” Steve asks, staring down at him intently. Bucky could melt. Even if he was going to absolutely _ruin_ him in just a moment, he still took the time to check in with him first. 

Bucky felt his cheeks heat up. Part of him was too embarrassed to answer; he didn’t want to admit just how much he wanted everything Steve was about to do to him. But the alternative—having Steve _make_ him say it, would be far _far_ more embarrassing.“I—I got it.”

“Good.” Steve growls, and they kiss again—it's so fast, so rough, that Bucky barely realizes it's happened before it ends. Steve lets his wrists go, but with a stark warning, “Don’t you fucking move.” 

He nods, but Steve isn’t even paying attention to his face anymore. His hands held either side of Bucky’s chest gingerly, while his lips settled on his breastbone, suckling the skin there. Bucky has to clench at the sheets above his head when Steve’s lips slip and close around his nipple. 

“Oh _fuck_ , Steve.” He whimpers, unconsciously grinding his crotch on Steve’s knee. 

The way the blond looks up at him, all hard eyes and narrowed brows, makes him curse out an apology. He returns to his task, sucking the nub into his mouth, flicking over it with his tongue, making absolutely _obscene_ sounds come from Bucky. It feels so good, he forgets the lesson he’d just learned, and bucked his hips against Steve’s knee again. 

This time, Steve closes his teeth down on Bucky’s nipple. 

“ _Fuck!_ ” Bucky yelps, instinctively pulling his knees together. 

“Then stop squirming,” Steve grunts, wrenching his legs open, and settling between them again. He returns to his task, laving kisses over the throbbing nub as if he wasn’t the one who caused it. Once he sufficiently gives Bucky’s chest attention, he starts going lower. 

He doesn’t even give Bucky’s cock a second glance, much to the brunet’s disappointment. No, he keeps going lower, dropping a kiss on his balls, but lower ultimately, until he settles at his destination. 

“Keep your legs up,” He instructs, and Bucky immediately pulls them up for him. He hums for a moment, just appraising the sight before him, before mumbling, “Oh, this is pretty. I fuckin’ missed this, Buck. Who’ve you been keeping this so pretty for?” 

Bucky shivered under Steve’s touch, his whole body _begging_ to feel his palms on Steve’s skin, but he doesn’t dare move. He keeps his fingers clenched in the sheets, and focuses all of his attention into not squirming away. 

Steve wraps his hand around Bucky’s cock, making the brunet yelp at the sudden stimulation, “I asked you something, Buck.” He whispers, and Bucky feels the warmth across his bare taint. “You’re always so pretty, y’know that? _So_ pretty. Is this for me?” 

Beside himself, he nods, fisting the sheets harder. “Yeah, Stevie, for you,” 

“Fuck,” Steve’s voice breaks, as if he wasn’t expecting that answer. Bucky almost thinks he’s going to pull away and leave him aching, but the blond dips his lips down and drops a wet kiss right against his rim. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Bucky gasps, his eyes rolling back.

Maybe it was because they hadn’t done this in so long, maybe it was because he’s been hard so long without being touched, but everything felt _so_ much more pleasant. So pleasant, that when Steve’s tongue dashes out and licks him, he felt the tension in his belly break, and hot ropes of come start splattering against him. 

Steve’s voice is a rasp he barely hears over his own cry. “Did—did you just come?”

Bucky looks down with fuzzy vision to see Steve peering up, and his fingers itch to slide down and pull him up for a kiss. It seems Steve has the same idea, easily covering Bucky’s body with his again and kissing him silly. When he pulls away, Bucky realizes his hand is still wrapped firmly around his softening cock. 

“Touch-starved, hm? Good. I like you like this. You’re so sweet for me like this,” Steve whispers, kissing at his jaw. “You’re so fucking _pretty_ when you come, Bucky. Jesus _Christ_.” Steve’s thumb circles his lips, then dip though them and press into his tongue. “I barely even had to touch you.” He kisses him again, _hard_ , “You’re going to do that for me again, okay?” 

Bucky barely manages another nod.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, side note, i'm now on nsfw twitter, should anyone want to see what bullshit i get up to over there! @/kaacchhaann it's mostly BNHA stuff, but I'll probs be posting stucky/marvel things there too!


	4. “Just—just fucking handle it, okay?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve grow closer, Steve clashes with his father, and Bucky finds out the truth about Steve and Tony's arrangement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii. It's been a while! I'm back with an update. I squished a bit of smut in the beginning there because the end is kinda angsty! Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> (Also yes, I extended the fic from 5 to 6 chapters because I had a thought™ and decided to drag the ending out a bit)

The air around them is warm—not unbearably so, just enough to make Bucky aware of it. It’s hot with warm breaths and heated skin, and the sheets beneath them are slightly damp against his shins. He wasn’t bothered by it, though—he was far more preoccupied by another heat. He felt like a fever was starting low in his gut, slowly crawling across his skin. 

With every slow grind of his hips, he felt a sharp spike of that heat go straight up his spine; and he wasn’t shy with expressing _just_ how good that felt. 

“Fuck—God, _yes_ ,” He whimpers, shifting his hips again, chasing that spark.

“ _James_ ,” Steve’s voice is small and strained—if Bucky wasn’t _literally_ on top of him, he could have even missed it.

Much more interested in the maintaining the slow, sweet rhythm of his hips, Bucky ignores him. “Mhm?”

That voice, small and broken again, “This isn’t _fair_.” 

Through sex-heavy eyes, Bucky’s gaze flits down to Steve. He’s one hell of a sight—sprawled out beneath him, his arms pulled up over his head, wrists secured together by his own GOP-red tie and firmly against the headboard by a few sturdy loops. 

_Fuck_ , Bucky thinks _, he’s so pretty_. His eyes are heavy, too—a consequence of Bucky serving him a taste of his own medicine. They’d been just like this, Bucky riding him nice and slow, for far too long now. The blond’s face is a flushed pink, his lips parted and huffing out impatient little breaths. 

“ _Bucky_ ,” 

Bucky ignores him again, instead sliding his palms up Steve’s sides. With him stretched out all long like this, Bucky can see the the soft little lines of his ribs, and runs his fingers over them appreciatively. Then, he rolls his thumbs over Steve’s tiny pink nipples. Steve’s hips buck up in response, and Bucky hears the tie begin to strain against the wooden slats of the headboard.

“Stevieee,” He whispers, “Don’t break the bed. I won’t be able to explain that to the concierge.” 

“Then _untie me,_ ” Steve grunts.

Bucky only rolls his hips again, pulling a heady moan from them both. Steve strains at the makeshift restraints again. 

“C’mon Stevie,” Bucky teases. “Can’t you take it?” 

Bucky straightens up on Steve’s cock without letting it slip out, then rolls forward, burying it inside him again. The way Steve shivers under him lets Bucky know he’s close.

“ _No,_ ” Steve gasps when Bucky does that again, “Faster, _please,”_

“I like it like this,” Bucky does it again, but snaps his hips down faster this time, making them both whimper. “Doesn’t it feel good?” He pulls his hands off of Steve to swipe up his own chest, “ _I_ feel good,”

“I bet you do,” Steve groans. 

“I do,” Bucky slips his fingers into his hair, braces himself up on his knees, and drops himself down on Steve’s cock faster. “You’re so deep, Stevie, _fuck_ , you feel so _good.”_

_“Buck,”_

“Feels so good,” Bucky’s voice starts getting more strained and pitching higher. He puts one hand down in the middle of Steve’s hips to brace himself, and starts bouncing himself up and down, “That’s _so_ good Stevie— _oh-my-god,_ fuck _—”_

“— _baby,_ I _will_ break this piece-of-shit headboard, _so help me God—_ ” Steve’s voice cuts off when Bucky rolls his hips again, “— _Bucky_ , baby _please—_ ” 

Bucky slows down, thinking about it, rolling his hips leisurely, “What’re you gonna do when I untie you?”

“Mhm— _God_ —” He drops his head back against the pillows, “M’gonna fuck the _lights_ out of you,” 

“Oh, yeah?” Steve’s hips stutter against Bucky’s soft ass—which makes Bucky smile, “You think you’ll last that long?” 

“Untie me, and you’ll find out.” Steve promises. 

“Fine,” Bucky mumbles, dipping forward to kiss him and gently untying the binds. 

Their lips move against each other fiercely, but the _second_ Steve’s hands go slack, he sits up abruptly and slams Bucky onto his back, between his legs. 

Bucky went willingly, his back a beautiful arch. Steve doesn’t give him even a moment’s breath—with the brunet’s legs still slung over his, Steve gets a firm grasp on either side of his waist, and starts snapping his hips up into Bucky roughly. 

“ _Oh-my-god, yes_ ,” Bucky gasps, trying to get a grip on Steve’s arms. “Yes, _Ste—Stevie_ , _fuck!_ ”

His hair falls in his face, but he still manages to get a good look at his lover. Strong arms holding his waist still so he could piston his hips up into him, pretty blond brows knitted together in sheer determination, lips parted and panting. With a fairly hard thrust, Steve slams _right_ into Bucky’s sweet spot, sending stars across the brunet’s vision. 

“Fuck, _yes_ , Stevie!” He moans so hard his voice cracks, “Y-yes— _just like that—_ don’t stop,”

Steve’s breathing is rough and ragged, “Fuck yeah, take it, _baby-boy_ ,”

_That_ nickname would always send Bucky over the edge—and before he could even begin to warn Steve, Bucky’s entire body started shaking, and he comes so hard his vision goes _blurry_. He feels his entire body go slack—and he’s feeling so good he barely realizes that Steve’s pulled him up against his chest, a hand curled in his hair with the other on his hip, still bouncing him lazily on his cock. 

“That’s it baby, you feel so good around me, you know that? Fuck, you always feel so good.” Steve murmurs into Bucky’s neck. “I want to see you come again, y’think you can do that?” 

Bucky’s brain felt like jello—he could barely get the words out as he formed them. He faintly manages a few barely strung together words, “ _Yeah—fuck—mhm_ ,” and when Steve starts moving him faster, a chorus of sweet, soft “ _Stevie-Stevie-Stevie—”_

And he did come again—this time right alongside Steve, their lips locked together right up to the end.

For a long while, Bucky didn’t even want to _think_ about moving. So, he just laid contentedly slumped against Steve’s broad chest, with the blond’s arms wrapped tightly around him. Slowly, he felt Steve’s fingers start making slow circles on his back, stirring him back to consciousness. 

“Babe,” Steve’s rumbly voice meets his ears. 

“No,” He whines, tightening his arms around the blond, “ _Not_ moving,” 

That makes Steve laugh against him. “No?” 

“No,” He murmurs into Steve’s neck. “Staying here forever.” 

Steve’s fingers swipe up Bucky’s back, tangling in his hair. For a moment, the quiet between them is awkward—and things are _never_ awkward for them. Immediately, Bucky realized his mistake. 

_Forever_ was a promise he should never make. Not to Steve. Married, father-to-be, almost- _President of the United States_ , Steve. 

“I’ve got an election to win, remember?” Steve whispers into those big brown curls. 

“I remember.” Bucky tenses, and starts unravelling himself from Steve’s long, lanky body. 

“Hey, hey,” Steve holds him still, “M’just teasin’ you, Buck. We can stay a bit longer like this.” 

“No, you’re right.” Bucky pulls Steve’s hands away, “We should get up.” 

“Buck?” 

Bucky doesn’t answer him, he just crawls off of the bed, finding his underwear discarded on the floor, and slipping into them. 

“Buck, honey, I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“S’alright, Steve, m’not upset. We need to get going anyway.” 

“No,” Steve says sharply, following Bucky into the en suite. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s—”

“ _Something’s_ wrong, Buck.” He leans against the doorjamb, folding his beefy arms across his chest and watching Bucky flick on the shower tap. “What are you thinking?” 

Bucky looks up at him and sees nothing but genuine concern in those big blue eyes. It makes his gut wobble. “M’just realizing,” His voice trails off. 

He didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to _think_ about saying it—because he already knew what Steve would say.

“Realizing what, Buck?” He takes a few long steps before he’s right in front of Bucky again, rubbing his hands up the brunet’s bare shoulders. 

“Realizing that this all has to stop, soon.” Bucky gestures weakly between them. “In a few weeks, I’ll be back in the city. No more— _this_.” 

Steve pauses abruptly—it might have even been a flinch. “No more—” He takes a short breath, “You don’t want to join my administration?” 

Bucky can’t bear to look up at him. “We never talked about that—and my firm in is New York, Steve.” 

“A few weeks,” He repeats, “You’re gonna leave as soon as the election is over?” 

Bucky doesn’t answer for a moment, just shaking his head until he found words, “It would be odd if I didn’t.” 

Realization slid across his face. “I see.” He says so quietly, Bucky almost misses it. “I guess I didn’t—I hadn’t considered that.” 

It hurts—the way Bucky wants nothing more than to reach out and pull the blond to his chest and promise him _forever_ and _always_ and all the other things people who loved each other promised against each other’s lips—but he doesn’t. He just stands there, wringing his fingers together like a nervous teenager all over again. 

“What if you just stuck around until the inauguration?” Steve suggests lightly. “That wouldn’t be odd.” 

“That’s almost two months, Steve,” Bucky shakes his head. “I can’t leave my team on their own—they’ll burn the fucking firm down.” 

Steve cracks a little smile. “Alright—but you’ll come back to DC for it, right?” 

Bucky smiled at him, too. His eyes were so hopeful, so warm and full, that Bucky felt butterflies in his belly. Like it or not, he was falling for Steve Rogers, and walking away from him would hurt. 

What would another lie hurt any more? 

“Yeah, baby. Alright.” 

***

Steve was listening to Falsworth. For the most part.

In reality, he was actually looking at the tail end of the conference table, where Bucky was talking to Natasha as they prepped for the meeting. He’s wearing a full suit; it’s a deep, dark, burgundy color, with a crisp white dress shirt underneath, unbuttoned at the neck. 

_Perfect_ , Steve thinks, not just for the Texas weather, but for Steve’s wandering eyes, too. Bucky’s hair is pulled back at the top, with brown curls still grazing the back of his neck. When he shifts to point down at Natasha’s clipboard, Steve catches a glimpse of the bruise he’d left on his collarbone. 

He can’t help but grin.

Nobody could know that he’d had _that man_ bent over the edge of his bed just a few short hours ago.A warm flutter of satisfaction thrums in his chest. 

“…I could say anything to you right now, and you’d just nod and say ‘mhm’, wouldn’t you?” Falsworth huffs. 

“Mhm,” Steve replies, with a grin. Finally, he looks up at his old friend. “I heard you— backstage is kinda dodgy. You guys always handle things well, I’m sure this is no exception.” 

James Falsworth, head of security on the campaign, was also Steve’s best friend. During Steve’s brief stint in the Marine Corp, they’d been deployed together. Leave it to Steve to find the only non-American born soldier in his battalion and befriend him. 

The accent rolls off his tongue innocently, and even though it’s dulled over the campaign, it was still very Birmingham. “How on earth are you going to get out of this one, Steve?” 

Steve doesn’t hide his smile, but still plays dumb. “What do you mean, Monty?”

“If I were blind, deaf and mute, I’d still think there was something going on between you two.” He frowns. “What’ll you do, when this is all over?” 

_I don’t want it to be over._ Steve huffs a sigh, “I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

Monty, never one to pull punches, just sighs, “Jesus. You have the foresight of a fucking goldfish.”, which makes Steve snort. Some people in the room glance at him, but quickly return to their conversations when they see Monty’s glare. “Have you fallen for him?” 

And Steve stalls. Like— _stalls_. It feels like his brain short-circuits. He should have expected something so straight-forward from someone like Monty—he didn’t like superfluous conversations. He was very much a lay-it-all-out-on-the-table sort of a man; and that’s exactly why Steve kept him around. He didn’t care for the niceties of the political arena, which made him a level-headed friend that kept him in check. 

But _this_ was the downside of being friends with Monty Falsworth. He could wrestle the truth out of _anyone_ , and being friends with him for so long meant that he could read Steve like a book. 

“Close enough to it, I think.” Steve says quietly. 

“So, yes?” Falsworth rolls his eyes again, “Or am I meant to help you continue living in denial?”

“Yes, Monty,” It's Steve’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’m falling for him. Can we save the ‘ _You’re an Idiot, Steve’_ lecture for later?” 

“Look, Steve, let me make myself more clear.” Falsworth whispers, ducking closer to say very, very quietly, “You aren’t exactly being subtle.”

Steve’s eyes follow Monty’s across the table, where Joe Rogers was sat, his arms folded across his chest, looking at Steve as though he’d caught his son reaching into a cookie jar. A spitfire, take-no-shit attitude-toting, brunet cookie jar. 

“How’re you going to handle that?” Monty asks gently. 

“How I’ve always handled him.” Steve grunts, “Ignore him. Eventually he takes the hint.”

There’s a rustling near the doors to the conference room, and then two more women enter. Joseph breaks his stare at Steve to greet them with a great big accent. 

“Carol, Darling, I’m so glad you made it in alright.” He gestures, “Steven, get on over here, there’s someone you ought to meet.” 

Approaching the pair, Steve realizes he recognizes one of the women. Carol Danvers. His stomach immediately churns. Suddenly it all made sense why Joe had called a campaign meeting all of the sudden. 

Steve knows a GOP hound-dog if when he sees one. Normally, he wouldn’t see anything wrong with her—they normally come round, fangs-out at this stage in the game, ready to stake their place in the blooming administration. 

But Carol Danvers wasn’t like most of the GOP. She wasn’t a gun-toting, tax-cut-loving Republican. She was a moderate, well-rounded one, but was unyieldingly cut-throat in her political conservatism. Steve would venture to guess that’s the basis for her and his father’s political alliance. 

“We’ve met a few times, actually.” Carol greets him with a warm handshake. “How’ve you been, Governor?” 

Steve smiles, but it’s dull. “I’ve been well, and yourself?” 

“Can I be honest with you, Governor Rogers?” She glances between Steve and Joe, smiling sweetly. Her blonde hair is pulled back and hangs over her shoulders neatly. Not a strand out of place.

“Of course!” Joe hollers.

“I was madder than a bat out of hell after the National Convention.” She grins. 

“So was half of the country.” Steve clips.

“Don’t get me wrong,” She sighs, “I see what’re you’re doing. You’ve got real talent on this campaign, and I respect it, but I think you’ve gone andpissed off a lot of people you’d be better off being friends with.” 

Steve flexes his jaw,annoyed. Like clockwork, his eyes flit over Carol’s shoulder, looking for Bucky. The brunet is giving him a pointed stare. It says everything he wouldn’t say out loud:  ‘ _You know why she’s here, don’t you?’_

Of course he did. His father, no doubt, went around promising cabinet positions to people who could offer favors along the campaign. Carol Danvers, in her prim red dress, had come to collect. 

“Now, Steve, I think it’s time you start seriously considering the sorts of folks you’ll want around you in the White House.” Joe hums, a firm hand on Sharon’s shoulder. “I think Mrs. Danvers would make a hell of an addition to your cabinet. Hell, she’s Chief-of-Staff material.” 

Steve doesn’t even hesitate. “That position goes to someone on my campaign staff first, before I even consider bringing someone else in.” 

Carol raises a brow, but Joe just laughs, hearty and fraudulent. “I know you’re quite _fond_ of Mr. Barnes,” He casts a sharp look at Bucky, making Steve bristle. “But he’s got that posh SoHo firm of his. I doubt that’s something he’s willing to give up for you, son.” 

Steve’s anger spikes. He knew what that meant. Bucky knew what that meant. Hell _,_ even _Falsworth_ probably knew what he’d meant by that. 

“Isn’t that right, Mr. Barnes?” Joe asks, but it’s an accusatory jab that makes Bucky shiver. “Fixin’s what you do best.” 

Bucky takes a minute to answer, fully aware that every set of eyes was suddenly on him. “Yessir.” 

“See, Steve—”

“—But,” Bucky straightens, “A bipartisan White House is bound to need fixing.” He arches his brow subtly, a little threat, Steve realizes, “And when the President calls you to serve, I like to think you’d serve, Governor Rogers.” 

It’s almost as though Joseph is, dare Steve say it, _impressed_. He makes a face, and just nods, turning to Carol, who has a less-subtle blonde brow arched. 

Steve cuts in before Joe can try for another cabinet position, “I’m so sorry you came all the way out here from Boston, but I won’t be picking a cabinet before I’ve even won the election. 

Surprisingly, she reaches out to shake his hand. Steve takes it, and she leans in, sharing a secret that sends a chill straight down Steve’s spine. “We both know you already have, Governor.”

Steve clenches his teeth, looking down at her perfect, straight smile and immaculate red lipstick. Thankfully, his voice doesn’t betray the tightness in his chest, “I appreciate your _faith_ in my campaign.” 

“Of course,” She downright sings, “I’ll get going then—but I’ll be _eagerly_ awaiting your call, Mr. President-elect.” 

And just like that, she turns, and leaves. The very _second_ the door is shut, Steve snaps. 

“Everyone out.” His voice is like ice—so of course, everyone jumps to leave, filing through the door behind Carol. 

In a matter of seconds, it’s just Joe, Steve, Falsworth and Bucky. 

“I need to speak with my father.” Steve says sternly, catching Monty and Bucky off guard. He doesn’t even look at them—he’s staring at his father as if his glare could kill him. 

Bucky and Monty look at each-other, wordlessly agreeing that this couldn’t possibly end well, but make for the doors as well. Monty, the bolder of the two, groans, “Right. Well, don’t maul each other. We’re renting this space.” 

Bucky leaves last, glancing at Steve one last time, to gauge his expression—and he’s _livid_.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Joe snaps, “Now why in the hell would you go and piss her off, Steven?” 

“Why the hell did you bring her here in the first place?” Steve shouts right back, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You watch your mouth with me, boy,” Joe points a stubby finger at his son, inching closer, “You have any idea the sort of work she put in to get this campaign funded? How the hell else do you think you can afford that pretty boy fixer, huh?” 

“I know _exactly_ where our moneys coming from.” Steve shouts. “I’ve got to make my peace with it every damned day.”

“Oh is that what you think? You think Tony Stark and his fixin’ friend brought in all the cash?” He shakes his head, “Think again, dumbass. It’s people like Danvers, people with _old_ money that got behind you, boy, and she’s right! When you gave a democrat the VP spot, you turned around and burned every damned one of those bridges.” 

“We both know there wasn’t enough old money to see me through to the election,” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, “How many times do we have to go through this? We _needed_ Stark—it was a hell of an opportunity! You would’ve done the same thing in my shoes.”

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t be doing whatever the hell you’re doing with the fixer.”

“Watch yourself,” Steve’s voice drops low in warning. 

“Watch myself?” Joe sneers in disbelief, “Jesus Christ, Steven, what the hell have you turned into? You know, I tried to raise you right, Steve. Your mother and I fucking _tried_ , but here you are, running around with some f—”

Fire lit behind Steve’s eyes, “Do _not_ finish that sentence.” 

Joe’s voice lowers, as though he’s disappointed. “What about your wife? How could you do this to Sharon?” 

“Sharon?” Steve scoffs, “ _Sharon?_ Don’t talk to me about Sharon.” 

“She’s a good girl.” Joe says quietly, “And she deserves better than this.” 

Steve takes a step closer, crowding Joe’s space. “Then you should have thought of that before you made me marry her.” 

Joe doesn’t have anything to say to that, because they both know it’s the truth. 

“I don’t want another word from you until election night. We’re going back to New York.” Steve says curtly, reaching for the door handle. 

***

_“Where is she?”_ Bucky asks, frantically searching Natasha’s eyes. “People are asking where she is—tell me you fucking found her,”

“I don’t know. She said something she ate didn’t sit well with the baby, then she shook Monty. He came straight to me when he realized it, and I came straight to you.” She says, a little panicked.

_This?_

This was the _last_ thing Bucky needed on election night. 

The almost-First Lady, disappearing into thin fucking air? 

Natasha grabs Bucky’s arm, just as he turns away. Her eyes are wide, honestly a little scared—and that’s never a good thing. If Natasha is scared, things have gone very, _very_ wrong. She lowers her voice and whispers shakily, “Bucky, I think she’s drinking.”

“Fuck’s sake.” He groans. “I’ll find her. Placate the cameras.” 

Bucky ducks out of the viewing room for the billionth time tonight, this time off in search of his boyfriend’s hormonal wife. 

Honestly, a live feed of the viewing room has been customary of candidates for the last handful of elections, but right now, Bucky really _really_ wishes they’d opted out of it. He allowed one network—just one camera man and one producer—in the campaign headquarters to document the Rogers/Starks during the countdown. 

It was going on seven on the west coast, meaning the polls were officially closed now, and the last remaining votes were being tallied. As of right now, Rogers-Stark was leading—but California is an exceptionally blue state. Tony is convinced he’s pulled most of the votes, but Bucky isn’t as sure.

That was out of his hands at this point—but what _wasn’t_ , was just where the _fuck_ Sharon Rogers had run off to. He checked the roof—she goes there to steal a smoke, sometimes, away from judging eyes and reprimanding husbands. He checked Steve’s office—and finally, he finds her in her own office. 

“Sharon,” Bucky sighs, relieved. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere! You almost gave Monty a heart attack.” 

Once he steps into the office, he gets a better look at her. His heart almost fucking stops.

She’s sat on top of her desk, heels abandoned on the chair. There’s a bottle of wine in her lap, and her hair is falling out of its bun. 

“Sher?” 

She glances down at the bottle, lifting it up. It’s half empty. “Do you think that’ll do it?” 

Bucky’s heart drops. “ _Sher—”_

_“—_ Do you think this’ll hurt him as much as he’s hurt me?” She asks, her voice oddly solid for such a scary thing being said. Her palm slides over her slightly bulging belly.

Guilt swirled in Bucky’s gut, snaking up his throat and choking off his words, “I—”

“It’s not your fault,” She waves a dismissive hand. Bucky can see it in her eyes—she’s not upset. She’s _tired_. “I’m tired of saying it’s not your fault.”

“D—Did you drink all of that?” Bucky gestures to the bottle. 

She points on the floor—he hadn’t noticed it yet. There's a dark, red splotch on the carpet. “Honestly? I spilled most of it.” 

“Okay,” Bucky sighs. He can handle that. 

She tosses her head back, a soft, broken laugh slipping out, “Don’t look so relieved.” 

“I’m not—”

“You are.” She smiles lightly, looking at him almost fondly. Then, she shakes her head gently, “What the hell am I going to do without you, Bucky Barnes?” 

“What do you mean?” He takes a few steps closer. She pats the desk beside her, so he sits, “I’m not going anywhere.” 

She laughs more honestly this time. “Oh, yeah? You’re going to keep spending your nights with him? Gonna sneak into the residence at night?” 

Bucky narrows his eyes at the splotch on the floor. 

He hadn’t—well, he hadn’t considered that. 

Selfish, he knows.  Once the election is won, he’s the only one who gets off scot free here. It would hurt for a little while, but he would jump right back into consulting like he had been before the campaign. He didn’t have to live in a loveless marriage. He didn’t have to raise a child he didn’t want. 

Guilt tightens his chest in a vice again. 

“I knew this is how these things went but—God, I thought we could be different.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky chokes out. 

“I know.” She whispers. “I’m not upset with you, James.” She sighs, fixing her skirt, “There’s far more pressing things to be upset by, especially tonight.” She laughs, a sarcastic little chuckle, "Like the sanctity of American elections, apparently."

Bucky glances up at her. 

Her eyes, big hazel eyes, settle on his, and for once—there’s something Sharon knows that he doesn’t. 

“Oh no.” She breathes out shakily. 

_“What?”_ Bucky blinks at her. 

“Oh, Bucky.” She presses her hand to her forehead, “I—I shouldn’t have—”

“—Is something wrong? Is something going to happen?” 

“No, no,” She says gently. “I thought you were a part of it?” 

“A part of _what,_ Sharon?” 

“The ticket, Tony, all of it.” She furrows her brows and whispers, “You don’t know why Steve picked Tony?” 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Steve didn’t pick Tony. Tony picked Steve. That’s why I joined the campaign.” 

“Tony’s sixty-five _million_ dollars of Steve’s super-PAC, Bucky—which used to be _Pierce’s_ super-PAC.” She whispers. “He’d been pouring money into Pierce’s administration in exchange for tax levies.”

It felt like the air had suddenly gotten thick. 

Bucky couldn’t breathe, and couldn’t see. 

Suddenly, nothing made sense. 

“Joe and Steve decided to use it against him. Then Tony sent you in to handle the campaign—and we all know how _that_ went.” 

Bucky lets that sink in—the betrayal sends ice through his veins.

She looks up at the ceiling again, “Steve knew about the PACs, and that got him funding. Tony knows about you and Steve, and that got him the VP spot. It’s mutually-assured destruction if either of them comes out. But hey, I guess that's what it costs to make a President these days. Ultimatums and blackmail.”

“Oh my god,” Bucky sucks in a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

His voice must have been rough, because Sharon looks up with frightened eyes. “Oh, God, Bucky—don’t be upset, please!”

“ _Don’t be upset?_ ” He snaps, his voice rising.

“Don’t!” She yelps, “Please don’t tell Steve that you know—not until you’re done here.”

He scoffs—and he _knows_ he has no right to be upset. As backwards as it feels, he _knows_ —for fuck’s sake, Sharon was right there, and she’d endured so much for this man and his race to the White House—but he can’t help it. 

He feels like a pawn in a game he hadn’t signed up to play. 

He feels _used_. 

“You have a responsibility—to _us_ , Bucky. Look at us. Look at how much we’ve sacrificed to get that man where he is! Our time, our values, our _bodies_.” She begs, her voice going heavy with tears. “Losing you, right now—Bucky, that would ruin him. All that pain would’ve been for nothing.” 

Except, it had hardly been pain to him. As a matter of fact, it had been quite the opposite. He was content. He was happy. 

He’d let his guard down, and he’d fallen in love.

And just _look_ at where that landed him.

Bucky clenches his teeth, looking out at her. Her eyes are glassy—and reflexively, he reaches for his pocket square and hands it to her. 

She was right. 

As much as he hates to consider it. She’s right. 

Anything he does right now just topples the whole show over, and Sharon and her baby would only get the worst of it. He couldn't do that. Not after ruining her marriage. 

It’s like his mind regresses—he’s forcing the image of Steve’s big blue eyes out of his head, forcing all of their sweet nothings down, forcing promises and every little thought of their futures deep, _deep_ down until he can’t even feel it anymore. 

Until he’s standing there, feeling like he’s on the verge of tears inside, but completely solid and unwavering on the outside. 

That’s what he does, because he’s Bucky _fucking_ Barnes; the man who could fix anything. 

Even this.

***

He returns Sharon to the viewing room, just as the final counts come in. Monty and Natasha are at the door when they walk in. 

“Thank _fuck_ ,” Natasha groans, looking over Sharon roughly. She reaches over and pushes her hair back, primping it. “Good, good. This is fine, I need you with Steve for the cameras, alright?” 

“Yeah,” She gives Bucky a tight smile, and squeezes his shoulder lightly, before returning to her husband and his family. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” Natasha growls, as soon as she’s out of earshot. 

Monty, also grunts, “Fuck’s sake, mate, I thought I’d lost the man’s wife! You took your _bloody_ time getting her here.”

Bucky cuts a glare at the two of them, but doesn’t respond. It seems like they both read the look on his face and decide against yelling any more. His voice is low when he speaks, “Did we win?” 

“It’s just about over.” She nods, producing her tablet. “It looks like it, boss. We won.” 

Bucky’s looking at her, at the sparkle in her big green eyes, and the surety in her grin—and he doesn’t need the data, he knows she’s never wrong. 

They’ve won, and it’s all finally over. 

Like clockwork, the calls come in. Secret service, first—to protect the President-elect before his win is even announced. Then, Pierce, with muted congratulations. Then, before Bucky even moves from that spot, the news outlets announce it. By a not-so-narrow margin, Steven Grant Rogers was the 46th President of the United States. 

There’s fanfare and confetti and yelling and champagne—but Bucky couldn’t participate. He stood against the wall, gazing out at the scene. 

For once, he was unhappy to have won. 

It’s selfish—but he’s so conflicted, so _confused_ that he doesn’t know which emotion to process first. The shock of it all? The hate he suddenly had so strongly for his oldest, closest friend? The fear of suddenly losing someone he’s grown so close to—dare he say someone he _loves_? The shame of being taken advantage of? The absolute _panic_ brewing at the though that his own team might have known before he did? 

The sting of tears comes to his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. Glancing up, he locks eyes with Steve for a second. He’s smiling, and it’s a big, beautiful thing to look at, but it slides off of his face when he sees the tears in Bucky’s eyes. For a second, it looks like he’s going to come over—concern etches into his brows and narrows his eyes—but Joe steps forward, obstructing their view. 

Natasha appears in his peripheral, but he doesn't look at her until she pulls on his sleeve. “Buck?”

He sucks in a harsh breath. “I’m leaving—” 

“—You’re _leaving_?” 

“I’m _leaving_.” He repeats, his voice breaking, “I-I have to go. Just—just fucking handle it, okay?” 

He barely makes it to the hall before those tears start falling. 


	5. The color of sunflowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!! It's been a while. I hope everyone's safe and healthy! We're almost at the end of GMMP!!! 
> 
> WARNINGS: Homophobic language from our least favorite Rogers man in the end there. Also, it's pretty angsty. 
> 
> Stay safe & wash y'all's hands. Cheers xx

“What’s _wrong?”_ Steve asks again, his voice strained. Bucky only brushes past him, into the hotel room, and starts undressing. 

“You’ve got to be up by six tomorrow morning, alright?” Bucky shimmies out of the shirt, draping it over a chair. “You _should_ be up even earlier than that, if we’re being honest. The last thing we need is you being late. I set the alarms—and secret service will be around first thing. If you aren’t up, I’ve asked them to wake you. S’that alright?” 

“Don’t talk inauguration at me, Bucky, I’m fucking talking to you!”

Bucky only reaches down to unclasp his belt. “Wardrobe will come first—but make sure you have a decent breakfast first. You’ll be going all day, and there’ll hardly be time to stop and eat.” 

“Bucky—”

He looks up at Steve, his face the same stern look he’s given him for the past few weeks. “Do you not want to do this? Because I’m tense, and I could use it, but if you want me to go, that’s all you’ve got to say.”

“N-no, I don’t want you to _go_ ,” Steve runs his palm over his face, “I want you to _talk_ to me.” 

Bucky just resumes undressing. “I don’t feel like talking.”

Steve sighs, but watches intently as Bucky slides out of his slacks. He’s got on those super-tight black underwear that he knows Steve drools over—maybe it was intentional, but he wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself. 

“Would you just fucking strip? Please?” Bucky glares at him.

With a huff, Steve starts undoing his buttons, too. “You know, you’re being insanely immature.”

“Really?” Bucky puffs.

“Yes, _really_ ,” Steve pauses, pulling his shirt off, “You’re being childish. Why can’t we just talk about whatever’s upsetting you? You’ve had a stick up your ass for weeks now.”

“There’s nothing up my ass, yet.” Bucky stalks up to him—he’s taking far too long, so Bucky helps. He’s out of his shoes and pants in a blink. “Lay back on the bed.” 

Steve, completely naked now, folds his arms across his chest. “No.” 

“No?” Bucky glares. “You waited until we’re both basically naked to say _no_? Fine. _Goodnight,_ Steve.”

Steve grabs him by his forearm, pulling him against his chest. “ _No_ , I’m not going to lay back.” 

Bucky blinks up at him, there’s something serious in his eyes, but something downright _mischievous_ , right behind it. He walks Bucky backwards until the backs of his knees hit the corner of the mattress, and he falls flat on his back against the soft white duvet. 

“I want you to tell me what’s pissing you off.” He grumbles, pulling those sweet spandexy boxers down Bucky’s thighs. “So that I can apologize, or fucking fix it.” 

Bucky’s breath hitches when Steve warm palms spread his legs. “There’s nothing—”

“Don’t lie to me and say ‘There’s nothing wrong’, Buck, _I swear to God_.”Steve’s lips are on those thick thighs in an instant, laving his tongue across the creamy skin, inching closer and closer to the place that’s aching for him, but he stops, pulling an annoyed groan from Bucky’s open mouth. “Tell me. Who upset you, baby?” 

_You_. Bucky almost shouts. “Sh’up,” He moans instead, “Touch me—fucking touch me, Stevie,”

“Not until you tell me what’s bothering you.” He teases his lips over those thighs again, barely ghosting the skin. 

“Don’t— _weaponize_ sex, Steve,”

“No? Isn’t that what you’re doing, too?” 

_Yes._ “Hardly.” 

His teeth close sharply on the soft skin of Bucky’s inner thigh, making him yelp. “I’ve already asked you not to lie.”

“There’s nothing wrong, Steve. I’m just trying to get laid. You can either help me get there, or I can leave.”

Steve stops his ministrations, and looks up at Bucky darkly. “ _What?”_

“Fuck’s sake.” Bucky lays flat out, scraping his nails over his scalp. “Get off of me.” 

Steve stalls for a minute, but leans back just barely in time for Bucky to dart to his feet, snatching his clothes up. 

“Where are you going?” Steve’s brows tie up in a scowl, watching Bucky hurriedly dress.

“I’m going back to _my_ room, where I should have stayed, and I’m going to _bed._ I will see you in the morning.” 

“But—”

“—Up by six, Governor.” Bucky snaps, and he’s through the door before Steve can even think about stopping him.

He’s sat there, blinking at the closed door, in disbelief; and he sighs, trying to ignore the chill that ran through his chest. Something was _very_ wrong. 

***“Can I get makeup over here?” Bucky shouts, and within seconds, the spritely young man was in front of him, kit and caboodle in tow. “Good. Look, the cameras are going to be over the barricade, so I need his part on the _other_ side.” 

“Yessir,” The artist nods, and quickly begins re-parting Steve’s hair. 

“How’s Sharon’s morning sickness?” Bucky asks the air around him, to whoever could answer first. It’s Natasha, of course. 

“She’s settled now, getting her makeup touched up.” 

“Good.” Bucky nods, checking his watch. They had seventeen minutes until they needed to walk out onto the capitol veranda for the ceremony. “We should be on schedule, then.”

He feels a soft touch on his leg, and looks down to see Steve’s finger brushing him. He’s smiling reassuringly, even as the guy in front of him messed with his hair. “Relax, Buck. Everything’ll be fine.” 

Reflexively, Bucky shifts away, pretending not to notice the way Steve’s eyes fell when he did.

Then, for good measure, he glares at the makeup artist, who’s beet-red, having witnessed something so personal. It’s a wordless threat that it seems the poor kid understood immediately. 

Without another word, Bucky stalked off to check on Sharon.

***

The Inauguration went as well as it could, given the circumstances. 

There was tension leading up to the event, so thick and volatile that it was stifling everyone involved. There were a few moments there where it seemed like everything would come to a head— that finally, _finally_ the truth would come out and blood would be shed—but Bucky always got a grip on himself in time to prevent himself from letting that happen. 

It upset Steve to no end. 

But Bucky was determined to keep his promise to Sharon. He ended up staying with Steve’s team through those last two months, without letting the secret slip. 

Fortunately, the President-to-be had so many new responsibilities that they hardly had time to see one another. Which, for Bucky, meant spending less time lying. 

He still slept with Steve—which seemed to be the million dollar question both Natasha and Sharon sought to find the answer to—but Steve could tell that something had changed. He’d hold Bucky a bit tighter at night, touching him more and more, even if Bucky stiffened under his fingertips or shifted away from him. 

He’d asked Bucky now a dozen times if something was wrong, if something had _changed_ , and they’d fought about it more than once. 

But Bucky didn’t bother fighting back anymore.

What was it worth fighting for, now? When everything would come to an anticlimactic end in a few short weeks? 

Steve would presume office, and they—he and Bucky—would fizzle out.

Bucky didn’t think it could happen soon enough. 

The actual ceremony, however, was wonderful. Even through the cloud of drama, Bucky couldn’t help but get a little lost in the wonderment of a presidential inauguration. 

Droves upon droves of people came out to witness the historic bipartisan team swear into their positions. The capital is swarmed with people bundled up to beat the cold. Wisps of snowflakes settle on Supreme Court Chief Justice Fury’s black robe, as he spoke.

It’s an unprecedented event in American history—Steve with a red tie, and Tony with a blue one, placing their hands on Bibles held by their wives, and taking their oaths. 

Bucky sat with his team a few rows away—so Natasha and Clint both notice when Steve shoots a warm smile back at him. They also notice how Bucky doesn’t return it. 

***

After the official ceremony, things escalate pretty quickly. Bucky rode back to the White House with his team to prep the Rogers-Starks for the Inaugural Ball, but Bucky was quickly whisked away by Secret Service. He didn’t need to guess who they were taking him to.

They lead him through the west wing, away from the sound of the band that was tuning up in the ballroom, until Bucky recognizes the hallway.

“Mr. President?” The tall suited man nods pokes his head through the door. There’s a murmured response, then he turns around and nods to Bucky. “You can go in, Mr. Barnes.” 

And so he does—but nothing could have prepared him for _actually_ walking into that room. 

It’s bigger than he imagined. Obviously oval, but also pretty wide. The lights are pretty dim, a soft orangey glow about the space. 

Steve was in full ballroom attire—a full black tuxedo that wrapped around him like a glove. His hair was perfectly smooth and in place. He looked like a million bucks. 

But his eyes—his eyes weren’t their normal happy shade of blue. They were soft and downcast—they almost looked afraid. 

And Bucky couldn’t know for sure that he’d caused it—the man had just become _PoTUS_ , and there wasn’t exactly a fucking manual for dealing with all the new feelings that came with it —but his chest still tightens.

Bucky can’t help but smile at him, damn near sparkling in that inauguration suit. “You did it, Mr. President.” 

He smiles softly, “No. _You_ did it, Buck.”

“Mhm.” He walks around the room, and runs a finger along the mahogany desk, then settles behind it—it’s a _massive_ desk, the top of it reaching Bucky at the waist. There’s already a photo of Sharon on the corner of it. Bucky doesn’t notice his expression falter, but Steve sure does.

“Aren’t you happy?” Steve asks, the smile slowly slipping off of his face. 

“Of course I am,” Bucky furrows his brows and starts appraising the curtains. “Very happy. I just made my first president.” 

The air in the room shifts—it had been warm and receptive, but now? Now its rocky, like the Oval was suddenly a ship adrift in a storm. Steve’s face goes hard, his stance rigid. He’d been teetering on the edge of angry, but now it seems he’s dove fully into it. 

Steve scoffs quietly. “Right.” He paces. “That’s all I am, now?” 

“What? I didn’t say—”

“No, you didn’t. But it’s what you meant, isn’t it?” He says, his voice rising. “It’s what you do, right?” His voice tapers off at the end, “You fix things— _for a hell of a price_ —then you disappear?” 

“Excuse me?” Bucky turns around to look at him. Steve’s bowtie is suddenly loose, his top button undone. He looks delicious, but right then, Bucky’s temper had flared up in his throat. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“You heard me.” Steve snaps back. 

“You’re seriously going to call me—” Bucky scoffs, “—what, some kind of political _whore_? Right now? After you just won an election half this country thought was impossible? Because of me?”

“Because of you.” Steve laughs. “Yes, I won because of you.” His voice rises, “Hear that, everyone!”

“Steve—”

He turns around, shouting at the door, “I won this election—I’ve become _president_ —because one SoHo fixer wanted to _make_ a president.”

Bucky’s chest tightens. “I moved goddamned _mountains_ to get you here and you know it.” 

“Yes,” Steve shouts, stalking right up to him. Bucky takes a few steps back. “And I love you, James, but you’re going to make me spend the next four years regretting that.”

Bucky pauses. The two of them are quiet—completely quiet—except for the ragged breathing of Steve after his shouting match. 

Finally, Bucky whispers, “So, you regret this.”

Steve pinches his brow. “That is not what I said.” 

He takes a step closer to Bucky, but Bucky steps back again. “You regret this.”

“No—” 

“Fucking hell,” Bucky whispers under his breath, turning away from him. 

He hadn’t even considered that possibility. He’d been pushing Steve away, building himself up to prepare for Steve to claw at his walls and beg him so stay. 

He hadn’t even considered the fact that Steve might be done with him, too. 

“Alright. Look—I’m—I’m done here. There won’t be anything _else_ to regret, because I’ll be back in New York. If that’s all you wanted, you could have started with it.” 

“Buck—”

“ _No_ ,” Bucky’s voice cracks. “You don’t get to call me that,” Bucky shouts back. “You _don’t_ , not anymore.” 

“I—”

“ _No_ , Steve.” He shouts. He gets close—so fucking close—to shouting it. To just ending the this thing by screaming, _‘You used me, Steve, and I won’t forgive you for it’._ But he’d made a promise to Sharon, and goddamn it, she deserves to have _one_ person keep their word to her. “I’ll leave. Natasha can handle the turnover.” 

“That’s enough!” Steve yells, and it’s so loud, Bucky flinches. “You aren’t _delegating_ me to Natasha, you aren’t going back to New York, and you _aren’t_ leaving.”

Bucky’s voice is low. “Watch me.” 

Before Bucky can brush past him, though, his palm wraps around Bucky’s forearm. It’s not rough, it’s not angry. It’s desperate. Neither of them speak for what feels like forever—they just stand there, Steve gently holding Bucky close, neither of them wanting to move. 

Because moving ends this, and they both know it. 

“Talk to me, _please_.” Steve whispers, cradling Bucky’s face in big palms. “What did I do, Buck? What—what’s _changed?_ Tell me, _please_ just fucking tell me, so that I can fix it. I never _ever_ want to make you cry.” 

It’s only then that Bucky realizes he is, indeed, crying.

James _fucking_ Barnes, cheeks streaked with tears because he fell in love with the _single_ most unavailable man in the country. 

“It’s…it’s not fair, Steve.” It’s angry and messy, the way it comes out, “It’s not fucking fair, because I—I think I love you.” 

His thumb swipes at another rogue tear, and Steve’s voice breaks, “Buck, I love you, too,” 

“No, no” Bucky shakes his head, pushing Steve away, “You _can’t_. Please don’t say that—”

Bucky hears the door behind him open, and Steve’s eyes, suddenly angry, snap up. He growls, “No. Give us a minute.” 

“You don’t have a minute,” Monty’s voice is hard, until he sees Bucky’s shoulders shaking. “Fuck, what the hell happened here?”

Heels click on the marble floors, signaling another entrance, then Bucky hears Sharon’s voice, “Steven, honey, they’re ready—” Her voice stops abruptly with a little gasp. 

“Fuck,” Steve bites under his breath, rubbing his hands up Bucky’s shoulders. “Bucky—”

“Go,” Bucky whispers, swiping at his cheeks. 

“No. I’m not leaving you.” 

“ _Go_ ,” He begs. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

“I don’t care,” Steve growls, “I don’t—I should, but I don’t. I don’t care who’s waiting. I don’t care who comes looking, Buck, because the only person I want to share this with is threatening to leave me.”

“You have to go, Steve.” Bucky swipes at his tears, then shoves at Steve’s chest. “Just. Go.”

After a long moment, his voice breaks, “Stay,” Steve squeezes his hands, “Promise me you’ll stay. I’ll come find you as soon as I can.” 

“Fine. Go.” 

He takes a moment to rake desperate blue eyes over Bucky’s crying face, one more time, then starts out of the room behind Sharon and Monty. And Bucky’s left standing there, teary-eyed and alone. _Again_.

***

The reception starts, and all things considered, it’s beautiful. Once Bucky had gotten his bearings, he joined the rest of the crowd in the ballroom. Unfortunately, he’d walked in just when Steve and Sharon started their first dance as President and First Lady. 

She can hardly press herself against him, with a growing bump between them. 

Sharon looks gorgeous. They both do, with their beautiful outfits and their gleaming straw-colored hair. They _look_ a like a President and a First Lady—Bucky could almost see them immortalized in paint and hung in the hallways of the west wing. 

“I’m sorry.” A gruff voice comes from his left. When Bucky looks up, he’s met by Tony Stark, looking more honest than he’s ever seen him. Over Tony’s shoulder, he spies Danvers. She’s looking at him—that hint of a smile she’s always got on those red-lined lips of hers—as though she could see right through him.

“Mister Vice President.” Bucky tries to smile, but it falters. “Congratulations.” 

“I wasn’t sure, but now—now I can see it on your face. You’re disappointed, and you should be. I know you know, Buck, and I want you to know that I’m sorry.” Tony repeats, his voice low. 

“For which part it?” Bucky’s eyes snap up to his, daring him to answer truthfully. “Lying to me? _Using_ me?”

After a tense minute, “All of it.” He takes a shaky breath, “I’d love to stand here and tell you that if it came down to it, I wouldn’t have done it—but I would have.” 

“Believe me, I know that.” Bucky grinds his teeth together. “You should have told me. I could have gotten you out of it. It’s what I _do,_ for fuck’s sake.”

“You wouldn’t have been able to see anything else.” He says, as though he’s thought about it. Knowing him, he probably has. “You wouldn’t have been able to see _President_ Steven Grant Rogers, and you sure as hell wouldn’t have made him.” 

Bucky’s quiet for a second. There’s that stifling sting of tears, but they don’t come. He’s cried enough today—more tears in two months than he’s had in his entire career. He’d been thinking about it recently—the prospect of going back to New York reminded him just how much he’d missed himself.

He’d become what these people needed—a campaign manager, a confidant, a mister, a fucking _stylist_ , but he hasn’t gotten to be himself for the better part of a year. Maybe it was time to fix that.

Bucky takes a big breath, feeling that sticky feeling leave his body with a sigh. “I guess you’re right.” 

“I’m so fucking sorry.” Tony repeats, and the strain in his voice proves it. “But you’re the best—this couldn’t have happened without you. _None of this_ would have happened without you. You gotta know—if there was another way, I would’ve taken it.”

Bucky turns, leans close, and says quietly, “We were good friends, Tony, and I’ll always remember that.” His voice is gentle, but that edge, _his_ edge is back in full force. “I’m loyal, and you know that better than anyone. I won’t talk—but I’ll never, _ever_ forget being used like that.”

Without another word, he walks away, keeping his gait even to avoid drawing attention to himself. He finds Natasha seated near the rear of the ballroom, already reading case files that are waiting for them in New York, from her phone. 

“I’m going back to SoHo.” He announces, to which she perches an eyebrow. 

“Good. I was worried you’d be leaving things with Hill for too long. How soon do we leave?” 

He waits until she looks up, meeting his eyes, before nodding, “Right now.” 

***

He’d seen him. Steve is a hundred percent sure that he’d seen Bucky at the ceremony. He’d watched his navy blue suit disappear into the crowd, but not re-emerge. 

With the event all but dead now, save the smoozers and stragglers, he’d sprinted back to the Oval, looking for Bucky; but he hadn’t been there. He didn’t start getting frantic until his phone calls were redirected to Bucky’s voicemail, and Natasha’s, too. 

At this point, he’s sprinting. He’s rushing around his new palace, secret servicemen following him obediently, as he flings open doors to meeting rooms and offices, desperate to find James. 

He stumbled upon the Lincoln sitting room, where it seems the rest of his entourage are slowly trickling in. His father is at the bar-cart, topping off what has to be his seventh whiskey of the night, and his heavy eyes land on his son angrily. 

“The hell are you running from?” Joe drawls angrily. 

Steve doesn’t pay attention to him. His eyes flit around the room, stopping at Monty, who looks rather pale—Steve can see it in his eyes. He knows. 

“Monty,” Steve takes a ragged breath, “Where is he?” 

The way Monty looks away confirms Steve’s fears. His best friend just whispers, “Steve,” 

“No,” Steve closes his eyes. “He said he’d wait.” 

“What the hell are you two on about?” Joe interrupts, but Steve doesn’t even look at him. 

“I need to talk to him— _before_ he goes back to New York.” Steve spins, pointing at one of his servicemen. “Can you do something for me? I need you to find someone—”

“Steve,” Monty barks, making both Steve and Joe look at him. “He’s gone, buddy. He’s not coming back.” 

Steve’s breathing picks up, a billion thoughts racing through his head. _Why would he leave so suddenly? Why wouldn’t he even say goodbye?_ He’s panicking—and of course, Joe can’t help but make thing worse. 

Joe’s voice is big and heavy, “Don’t tell me this is about that fucking fairy.” 

Almost reflexively, Steve jolts towards his father, fist rising; but Monty’s got his arms around him before he gets close enough to do any damage. 

“What? What, are you going to hit me, boy?” Joe stalks closer, against Monty’s struggled warnings. “D’you have any _fucking_ idea of the kind of win you just had? Instead of celebrating with your family, you’re worried about the one person who doesn’t give a _flying_ _fuck_ about you?”

Steve struggles in Monty’s grasp, grunting, as emotions flood him all at once. Rage, fear, despair, insecurity. Everything feels like it’s hitting him from a different direction, and he’s not sure how much more of it he can take. 

“That boy’s been trying to get you off his ass for weeks now! A blind man could’ve seen this coming.” He shouts, his voice dangerously loud. “You don’t want to stick your dick in your wife, _fine_ , you can find some other faggot to keep your bed warm; but you will _not_ fuck this up for us, boy.” 

“ _Us?”_ Steve shouts, finally wrestling out of Monty’s grasp. He yanks the bottle of whiskey by it’s spout and hurls it against the wall, barely a foot away from Joe’s head. Warm cinnamon reaches his nose, and he can’t help the dampness that gathers in the corners of his eyes. 

Dress shoes clink on the marble tiles, and Steve hears Tony clear his throat. “I don’t mean to add fuel to this fire—”

_“—Where is he?”_ Steve turns around, glaring at his Vice President. 

“On my private plane, headed back to SoHo.” Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Anger bubbles under Steve’s skin, “Why the hell would you get in-between—”

Tony raises a hand and talks over him. “He _knows_.” 

“What?” Steve says quietly. His father says something akin to surprise, but Steve can’t hear it. It feels like the walls around him could be crashing or burning, and he wouldn’t be able to focus on anything besides Tony’s words. “What do you—”

“Why the _fuck_ would you go and tell him that?” Joe shouts, gesticulating wildly. 

“I didn’t fucking tell him!” Tony glares at Joe, then points at Steve, “I thought _you_ told him!” 

“I didn’t—How long had he known? What—what did he say?” Steve pleads, searching Tony’s eyes. 

“I don’t know how long.” Tony frowns—and it’s clear he’s unnerved as well. “He, uh, he said he’d never forgive me, then he left.” 

Steve closes eyes, rubbing a palm over his face. _How? How did he manage to fuck things up so badly? How long had Bucky known—is that what made him act differently? That would mean he’d known the truth for weeks now. Why didn’t he say something—why didn’t he—_

“The _last_ thing we need is this fucking story coming out,” Joe hollers, “The only way we do that is if we keep information in this immediate circle—why the fuck would you tell him? Now he knows, and we know he’s going to tell that red lackey of his—”

“Do you _shut up_?” Monty snaps, and all three of them look up at him. “Do you even consider the things you say before you say them?” It’s quiet for a moment, then he continues, “Bucky wouldn’t do that to Steve, or Sharon, or the baby. What does it matter if Steve told him the truth? He wouldn’t do that to any of you.” 

“I didn’t.” Steve says quietly. They all glare at him to he repeats. “I didn’t tell him. I—I was too afraid to.”

“Well I didn’t fucking tell him,” Joe snaps, “So if I didn’t,” He glares at Tony, “And _you_ didn’t, either, then who the hell did?” 

As soon as it leaves his father’s lips, Steve realizes. It looks like the others realize, too. 

_Sharon_.

***

The residence is big enough to get lost in, really. The governor’s mansion in Albany was big too—Sharon wasn’t a _stranger_ to wealth, but there was something different about the White House. Something beyond wealthy. Something heavy and unfamiliar and almost daunting about the place. 

She lost her heels in the living area of the residence, now wandering barefoot through the closets. She’s looking through the pantsuits and dresses and blouses that Bucky had picked out for her maternity closet. She wouldn’t need him to do that anymore, considering she now had an entire flock of people dedicated to making sure she looked the part of First Lady in her every waking hour. She didn’t need to ask him if navy made her look too austere, or if pink made her look to childlike; but she’d definitely miss it. 

She didn’t _mean_ to become friends with her husband’s mister. She really didn’t; but _fuck_ , did Bucky make it hard not to. 

He was so kind, so endearing, and so cutthroat when it came to protecting the people he cared about; really, it was inspiring. No one had ever done that for her before. No one had put her first—not even Steve, not even when he loved _her_ and not _him._

But she was not Bucky Barnes, and every day she spent sleeping on her side to appease the ever-growing child of a man who fell out of love with her, she was forced to remember it. 

At the narrowing of the room, where her closet met Steve’s, there’s a giant sideboard, and atop it is a giant bouquet of perfectly cut yellow roses. They could have been from the staff—a welcome gift, if you will, but she feels tears in her eyes because she knows they aren’t. 

No one had asked Sharon what her favorite color was since grade school—until Bucky. 

He was great at small talk, but he was shit at small talk with the woman whose marriage he’d derailed—but she didn’t mind. It made him…endearing. She didn’t hold it against him—she knew more than anyone that you couldn’t help who you fell in love with. He’d asked her that question after a terse bout of quiet, and probably expected something frilly, like pink or lavender, but Sharon had grinned at him and said ‘Sunflowers—yellow. That’s my favorite, I think. The color of sunflowers.” 

She picks the little card up and flips it over. 

“Sunflowers aren’t in season. Roses felt more fitting, anyway. Take care. -B” 


	6. "I know."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly? It's likely not the end you have in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw jeez. Time really ran away from me with this one. I sat on the final chapter for a long time, and nothing I wrote really felt like an appropriate end for these guys—but nonetheless, it's here. Perhaps in the future, there might be an epilogue? Or maybe the alternate endings I scrapped?
> 
> Nonetheless, this is the end of the main story. 
> 
> If you've stuck around since the start—thank you.

Barnes and Associates makes up the eighth and uppermost floor of the Romanov-Barnes commercial building, smack in the middle of SoHo. There are a few smaller offices on the lower floors—the customer service office of a paper company, and the offices of a few minor attorneys—but you couldn’t tell from the outside. The big building is all rusty, aged brick, and sleek black-framed windows. The only tell separating it from the other residential buildings is the block, serifed letters reading _Barnes & Associates_ over the entryway.

Bucky doesn't think anything says _home_ quite like that sign does.

He’d kept the interior of the firm as true to it’s original design as possible—including the exposed, accordion-close elevator. The only changes he made were for the sake of modernity: installing new mahogany wood floors, tearing down the walls and replacing them with big planes of glass to separate his staff’s offices, and black paint; which left the space big and airy, just how he’d imagined it.

From the foyer where the elevator stops, you could see down the hallway that ran the width of the building, parallel to the street below. On either side of the hall were offices, and on the end opposite the elevator sat the main conference room that looked over the corner of Broadway and Grand.

That was where his staff waited every Monday morning—fresh-faced and ready to take on a new case. As he approaches, he counts them—Natasha, a swath of red curls, knee deep in the week’s hopeful case files; Clint, sat beside her, dawdling on his iPad; Bruce Banner, head linguist at the firm, is sat with his back to the door; and beside him, their head of operations, Maria Hill, was looking up at the television. Peter—the intern turned youngest _ever_ associate at the firm—hadn’t come in yet.

“Hello, hello,” Bucky hums, entering the room with a smile. He slings his coat into the crook of his arm and asks, “What’ve we got this morning?”

“Depends,” Natasha sighs, not looking up from the file she was handling, “How mad are you still at Senator Dryer?”

“Absolutely fucking furious.” Bucky says simply, settling at the head of the conference table.

Clint grins at him, “You know how he is,” he kicks at her chair, “He’ll hold that grudge until he croaks.”

“He cost us Texas.” 

“Texas cost you Texas.” Natasha sighs, “How about doing some damage control for Justice—”

“—Fury?” Both Bucky and Banner say at the same time.

Natasha looks up and blinks impatiently. “ _No_ , Justice Strange.”

“Oh.” Bucky hums. “I’m not a fan of him. Can’t imagine wanting to do him any favors anytime soon. What else—”

“—Good morning!” A chipper voice calls, and seconds later, Peter comes bounding into the conference room with a coffee-holder carton in each hand. “I’ve got coffee!”

“Ah, thank you, Petey,” Bucky takes a cup.

“This is just mean,” Maria frowns, but still gingerly takes a cup from Peter. “How long are you gonna make the poor kid do our coffee runs? He’s not an intern anymore.”

“You’re lucky you joined us _after_ you’d had a successful career.” Natasha smiles at her. “Otherwise it’d be you spending a half-hour in Starbucks every morning.”

“Boo-hoo,” Clint teases, also taking a cup. “I’d been fetching coffee for two _years_ before Barnes gave me my first real assignment. Let Petey-boy earn his stripes.”

“His stripes!” Bruce yelps, “Christ, how long is that gonna take—”

The ding of the elevator and heavy footsteps near the foyer shuts them all up, and they glance between one another confusedly.

Bucky rises to his feet with a little smile, “ _Much_ longer than necessary, if he keeps forgetting to lock the front door behind him.”

Before he could even leave the conference room to turn their visitors away, a man in a suit walks in, without a word. Then another. Then, Bucky notices the clear coiled wires leading from their ears down their collars.

His heart drops down to his fucking toes. It’s Secret Service.

Clint curses, “Who the _fuck_ is—”

“Relax,” A soft, male voice echoes down the hall, before it joins them. Short, barely-blond and balding—it’s Phil Coulson. Chief of Staff to the First Lady. “It’s only me.”

Bucky doesn’t have time to feel relieved before the venom starts pumping through his bones. “Oh for _fuck’s_ sake.”

“It’s great to see you, too, Bucky—“

“—not _Bucky_ , not to you.” Bucky grits out, his temper flaring. His team felt the shift in energy, too, and quickly rallied behind him with pointed glares.

“Jeez, alright, Mr. Barnes. Hostile work environment you’ve got here.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and pouts. “Listen, I hope you don’t have too much on your plate. You’re needed at the White House.”

“What a shame I don’t work for the President.”

“Right. Let me be more clear—I’m not here on behalf of the President.” Phil presses, walking a bit closer.

“That’s close enough.” Clint stands in front of him, effectively blocking his path, “D’you want him out, Boss?” He asks over his shoulder.

Bucky meets his eyes, and there’s something there that makes him pause. “Not yet. Talk, Coulson. Quickly.”

“Look.” Phil says, and his voice is hard—harder than he’s ever heard him speak. “I know there’s— _history_ between you and this administration. I don’t know what happened. Nobody does, because nobody in the White House wants to talk about it. Your name is to this White House what Macbeth is to the theater.”

Bucky shivers. Not that he hated the sound of that—it was for the best that he wasn’t welcome there anymore—but he can’t help but feel a tinge hurt that the Rogers hated him enough to bar his name even being spoken.

“Pick it up, Phil.” Natasha warns, completely disinterested.

“I am here without the _expressed_ permission of the President.” His eyebrows go up. “The First Lady sent me. She’s requesting you lot, specifically. She has something that needs _handling,_ as it goes.”

Bucky pauses again, blinking the errant thoughts of now-President Rogers away. It’d been so long since he’d seen him—but not long enough to forget the betrayal. Clint had been right; Bucky was the type to die with grudges clutched tightly in his fist.

Sharon, the nation’s darling First Lady, seemed to be doing well as far as he could tell by through the media. She looked happy—not _really_ happy, but she sold the pipe dream better than he ever could.

After a long moment of him thinking with the other three looking at him expectantly, he quietly asks, “How bad is it?”

“On a scale of one to ten? Easily a hundred, should it get out. Not to mention it would _definitely_ tank re-election.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to sigh, and he turns, settling in his chair, “Well. You’ve all made it two and a half years into his term without any notable scandals. Knowing them, I can’t imagine that was easy.”

Phil sighs, rubbing at his forehead. No doubt the fine lines there were the result of his very stressful job. “You have no _fucking_ clue.”

“Well, what do you need?” Bucky asks.

“I don’t even know.” He gestures broadly. “She refuses to expand on anything. Says she trusts one person to handle this properly—and it isn’t me.”

Bucky’s chest tightens. He’d packed away these feelings, this _loyalty,_ a while ago but he can’t help but sigh—because he’d already decided. From the way Natasha closed her files and dropped them in the middle of the table, she knew he had, too.

“Will you help us?” Phil asks, hopefully.

“I’ll be in DC first thing in the morning.”

***

Surprisingly enough, there had actually been a visitor’s pass at the White House entrance with Bucky’s name on it. _Bucky Barnes,_ embossed in plastic. The poor guard had to rifle through his station— _‘I know it’s here, Christ, it’s been here forever. They told me you’d be coming—I didn’t think you really would._ ’

Bucky had only glared at him, taking the badge and shoving it into his coat pocket.

He’d been in this building hundreds of times in previous administrations—but there was something about walking into it now that made his spine straighten and his jaw lock up. He wasn’t blind. He could see them all staring.

Coulson had been right—he was the Macbeth to this stage—because the second he and Natasha walked into the building, all eyes were on them; and the bustling hallways quieted to frantic whispers and aids staring in something akin to awe.

Part of him likes the notoriety; but another, more honest part of him, fucking hates it.

Just when he begins to wonder if they were wandering in the right direction; he sees the last two people he’d hoped to run into. On the left, red lipstick and tightly kept blonde hair; on the right, a perfectly tailored blue suit, and slick black hair. Chief of Staff to the President, Carol Danvers and Vice President Stark, in the flesh.

And the look on Stark’s face is priceless.

His eyes narrow on Natasha, and when he blinks in realization, wide brown eyes snap to Bucky in complete disbelief. He opens his mouth to speak; but nothing comes out. Danvers, as well, is looking him up and down—and the noise of staffers rushing about clambers to a stop.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Carol asks quietly. There’s no malice in her voice—just genuine confusion; if anything, there’s a bit of panic in the words.

“You know what it is I do for a living.” Bucky blinks at her, devilishly slow. The fact that his presence has them both so unnerved makes his heart thrum in excitement.

She looks around, her eyes desperately flitting from staffer to staffer, as if searching for a way out of their little encounter.

Around the corner, Senator Sam Wilson—former rival, new friend to the Rogers-Stark administration—pokes his head out of a conference room.

Once he sees Bucky, he straightens up, eyes widening before he lets out what appears to be a relieved little breath—Bucky doesn't quite understand it, but he doesn't have time to think too much about it. Just as Wilson starts to say something, Carol jumps to excuse them—but it's Tony who stumbles over his words the clearest.

“Can—Can I have a word with you, James?” His voice shakes a little.

Bucky takes a good look at him—fine gray hairs have lightened his temples a bit, making him look less intimidating than he normally did. His giant obnoxious sunglasses are replaced by a big pair of tortoise-shell eyeglasses. He swallows, and Bucky watches the twitch of his Adam’s apple with mirth in his eyes.

Carol finds her Boston charm and kicks up her accent for the people most definitely eavesdropping in the hall. “I’m sure Mr. Barnes will be around to chat later, Mr. Vice President. If you will, we’ve got a senate to sway.”

“I won’t.” Bucky says simply.

“Pardon?”

“I won’t. Be around, that is.” He repeats, fixing his coat in the crook of his elbow, “I doubt I’ll be back for some time. My apologies, Mr. Vice President. If you’d excuse me.”

Bucky easily sidesteps their servicemen and continues his trek down the hallway. Natasha is at his side with a quick clicking of heels and grins at him, ear-to-ear. “Atta boy.”

***

Sharon Rogers may have lost the sparkle in her eyes weeks into the campaign, but Bucky hadn’t ever seen the life drained out of her. Not when her husband cheated, not when she had to conceive a child to save that campaign, not even when she watched her husband and his running mate steal an election.

But now, it was gone.

She smiled for every camera she’d been put in front of, but Bucky could see it in her eyes—she was tired. He could also see something else though—that something terrible had happened, something that had tipped the delicate balance that kept her waking up and _going_ every morning, because when Bucky entered the Residence, he could tell it was hardly a home.

Baby Jack—America’s baby, as the tabloids called him—was sat in the middle of the fancy furniture on a blanket, playing with a set of small, bright toys. Sharon had sat in the chair behind him—not paying much mind to her son—and dismissed his nanny so they to talk.

“Look, I know this is the last place you want to be, James,” She says with a sigh, “But thank you for coming.”

“I told you I’d be here.” He decides to say, simply. His eyes, however, linger on the small child—he was barely two and a half, but Bucky could see Steve’s eyes, Steve’s pale blonde hair, Steve’s cupid’s bow. Jealousy, hot and mean, spikes in his throat. He swallows it down.

She takes a deep, shaky breath, and runs manicured fingers over her face. “I fucked up, Bucky. I _really_ fucked up.”

“I’m sure it isn’t that bad,” Natasha says gently, “And if it is—“

“—we can fix it.” He assures.

Sharon takes another shaky breath, and Bucky notices the way her hands are trembling.

“I need an abortion.”

Quiet covers the three adults, even as the toddler below them continued clinking his toys together.

“And I can’t get one through the White House doctors. It’ll be a media circus. It’ll ruin Steve’s chances at re-election.”

“Right.” Natasha says. “Jesus. Alright, we can handle that. Right, Bucky?”

Bucky blinks a few times, coming back to the moment. He hates to think this way, to even _consider_ saying what he’s about to, because he shouldn’t be thinking about what's best for Steve’s re-election campaign, and he _really_ shouldn’t be thinking about asking Sharon to suspend her right to choose—but can’t help but say it, “Are you sure? Another baby would—”

“—Bucky.” Sharon interrupts, her eyes screwed tightly together. She smooths her hair back and then worries her brow. “I didn’t say I _wanted_ an abortion. I said I _needed_ one.”

“Oh.” Natasha gasps slightly.

Then Bucky catches the implication as well. All of a sudden, Wilson's relief makes a bit more sense. “ _Oh._ ”

“Hah,” Sharon lets out the ghost of a laugh, “I know. Believe me, I know. It was reckless and dumb and now I’m stuck here, having to drag you back to this awful city—”

“Hey—hey, hey. No, Sharon. We’re friends, remember?” Bucky says immediately, reaching for her hands, “Only fuckin’ friend I got left in this awful city. You need something handled, I’m here to handle it.”

She looks up at him, shame in her eyes, and exhaustion worn like a second skin; and Bucky knows that he’s got to make this happen for her. There won’t be much left of her if he doesn’t.

***

In the end, it takes less time than Bucky had expected it to.

The procedure itself took less than a half-hour, and the whole ordeal is complete in two. All it really took was a bit of sleight, a half of a million dollars, and a very thorough, airtight non-disclosure agreement. Sharon is discharged, NDAs are signed by all involved parties, and they’re getting her settled in the Residence shortly afterwards.

“We can stick around town for a few days—” Natasha tries to reason with the First Lady. “—Well, maybe James can’t; but I could. Just to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’ll be fine.” She says gently, tossing the blankets over her legs. “I just need some time to process all of this. Time and space. Fortunately, I’ll have a whole lot of the latter.”

Bucky opens his mouth to reply, but his phone buzzes to life in his breast pocket. He plucks it up and quickly excuses himself to answer it.

“Barnes.” He says, clicking the door shut behind him. 

“Bucky.” A sharp voice says breathlessly. “Look—don’t hang up, yeah? I just need to get this out.”

Tony.

Bucky’s body feels heavy—rooted to the spot. He wants so badly to hang up, but there’s something about the desperation in Tony’s voice that keeps him stock still.

“I’m sorry.” It comes over the phone line in a rush. “I…made some bad mistakes; and I feel horrible about how things broke off for us. It feels violent. Jagged, if you will. And I know that’s my fault, so I don’t want you to think this is me cornering you into forgiveness. I know I tend to do that—but I won’t. You don’t…deserve that.”

Bucky takes a breath, “There’s no reason for us to go through this again, Anthony. We did leave things jagged. I think they’re going to stay like that; for both our sakes.”

“That isn’t what I want to apologize for. I know you won’t forgive me for that. I’m talking about Steven.”

It’s visceral; the response he has to hearing that name. No one had said it in his presence yet—it’d been ‘President Rogers’ and ‘Mister President’ all day. His teeth grate together, his brows pinch, and his eyes snap to the ceiling, trying to prevent tears that had already begun gathering.

“Tony—”

“That’s my fault—that’s on me; I don’t want to bring things back up for you if you’re past it, but somehow I doubt you are. He isn’t.”

That heavy, stifling sting of oncoming tears tightens his chest in a vice.

“I made a big, _stupid_ mistake, and it cost me my best friend. That wasn’t fair to you at all. Either of you. I ruined a love that you both needed.”

“You’re wrong.” Bucky says, but the second he blinks he realizes the tears have come. “But that doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.”

“I’m sorry.” Tony repeats softly. “It’s not in the past, not yet, at least.”

There’s a soft click of the doors opposite the ones Bucky left Sharon and Natasha behind, then the sharp sound of shoes on hardwood. “Mr. Barnes. If you’d come with us.”

He hangs up the phone and clears his throat. The servicemen seem fairly somber—and he has no doubt that they’re fully aware why the Vice President had sent them to retrieve him, and where they’re taking him.

After a terse moment, he sighs. “Yeah.”

***

The walk down to the Oval is quiet, much like it had been the last time he was escorted there.

Except this time it was clear; there isn’t a soul in the West Wing besides them. Tony must’ve covered all his bases. When they arrive, one of the servicemen ducks inside to announce his arrival, then quickly returns, opening the door for him.

As he enters, Bucky glances down at his watch—a quarter to two.

“Good Morning, Mr. President.”

President Steve Rogers is sat behind his desk, looking like the single most miserable man on the face of the earth.

His tie is undone. There are papers littering the top of his desk, pens strewn about the surface. His suit is disheveled, and he’s barely sitting up straight. He looks almost like his father in a way, and to drive the image of Joe Rogers even further home, there’s an open decanter on the corner of his desk, sending the hot smell of rye whiskey into the air.

He takes a sip from the crystal highball, sharp blue eyes gazing out at Bucky.

His voice isn’t mean, or threatening; just _rough_ when he says, “I have called you, everyday, for the past two years; with no answer.”

Bucky’s barely holding onto the edges of his nerve; he can barely look at him. “I know.”

“Do you even bother?” He takes another sip. “Listening to the voicemails?”

When Bucky finally meets Steve’s eyes, the air rushes out of him, and his voice almost shakes. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes.” He repeats, as though the word didn’t make sense. “You can be bothered to listen to me beg for you to return my calls, _sometimes;_ but the second Sharon needs you, you get on a plane to the capitol?”

Bucky sucks in a breath shakily, “I—I wouldn’t be here at all, if it could’ve been avoided.”

“But you are.” Steve says, setting the glass down onto the desk with a loud clack. “And I had to find out through _Tony_.”

“Steve.” Bucky glances at the door. “Someone could hear.”

“I don’t care!” Steve’s voice begins rising, but it breaks off, “Why did you run, Buck?”

“I didn’t _run_.” Bucky snaps. “I left.”

“Why!”

“Because you lied to me, Steve!” Bucky shouts.

It sits in the air between them for a moment, terse and volatile, having been everything he’d wanted to say for years now, all at once.

“I did.” Steve looks down at his hands, clenching them into fists then releasing them, as though he were trying to calm down. “I lied to you, Bucky, because there was no way we would have stood a chance if I didn’t.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Steve you don’t get to—”

“Yes, I started the campaign with bad intentions. So did Stark; but I didn’t expect to fall for you—and I sure as hell didn’t expect _Tony_ to try to use that against me.” He gestures around him, “I would have given up everything—fucking _everything—_ if I knew you were going to leave.”

“It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter what you would have done, or how things could have gone— _this_ is how it went, _this_ is how it happened; and nothing is going to change that.”

For a fraction of a second, Steve’s face falls; the look on his face is something pitiful, and it tugs on Bucky’s heartstrings unlike anything else. His brows tug up a bit in the middle, and his eyes go dull and glossy—empty.

“Buck, you can’t mean—“

“—I do. I do, Steve.”

Silence covers them and it’s so loud, it’s like their eardrums could burst from the intensity of it all. There’s pain in that quiet. Heavy and laden with things unsaid, emotions unfelt, hurt unforgiven.

But then; a spark of disbelief, an unwillingness to let things die between them, not like this. Steve’s eyes flash with a sudden renewed fight and Bucky barely gets it guard up in time.

“And what—you never lied to me, Buck?” Steve’s voice is hurt, but it’s loud and it doesn’t waver. “In our time, you never once held something back because you thought it would hurt me—hurt us?”

Bucky takes two short steps closer, his temper flaring the way only someone you loved could stoke it up and out of the hearth of your chest. “You don’t get to call me that anymore—”

“—You don’t get to act like I’m the only one who kept secrets!”

“I didn’t keep secrets from you because I wanted to trick you into staying with me—I kept secrets because it was my job to! I kept secrets so you could win that fucking election, Steven! _That_ is the fucking difference!” He spits, his voice raw with emotion, “You’re not going to turn this around on me; own up to your mistake and get it through your head that this is done—it’s over Steve. You lied to me—you used me, and I’m never going to forgive you for it.”

Steve’s reply is quiet—not even near the volume of Bucky’s yell. “What about Brock?”

Bucky’s chest tightens. “What _about_ Brock?”

“You told me you weren’t seeing him. That there wasn’t anything happening there.”

“Because you accused me of having an affair on _your_ affair!”

“Then why did you lie?”

“I didn’t lie—I wasn’t seeing him—“

“—But you’re seeing him now.” Steve’s voice cracks at the end.

Bucky’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out, “I’m not—how did you even—what, are you having people tail me now, Steve? You can’t just fucking—“

Steve shakes his head; “No, Buck.” He shifts slightly, sliding one of the magazines on his desk forward; he flips through it, folds the page over, then drops it onto the floor, in front of Bucky.

It’s _Breitbart News_.

An article by Cindy Holmes.

The top half of the page is a photo; he and Brock, smushed together side-by-side, walking out of a coffee shop in SoHo.

“You remember Cindy. She thinks it was you, by the way; the affair—but she doesn’t know for sure. I guess you haven’t been keeping up with her. I don’t blame you. Lots of people think she’s crazy; most people discredited her as a journalist when she ran her stories about me being closeted and claimed my marriage was a sham. Everyone’s called it alt-right bullshit; but she hasn’t been too far from the truth, huh?”

Bucky closes his eyes; all of that information hits him so quickly, he barely grabs one part quick enough to form a response. “It wasn’t like that, Steve.”

“Oh, what were you two _consulting_? He’s got his arm around your waist—“

“—It doesn’t fucking matter what we were doing, Steve! It’s not your business!”

“Fine!” He kicks the magazine off to the side, “Then what about the Inauguration, huh? You knew damn well you had every intention of leaving DC when the results came in—Monty said Natasha had been planning your departure _weeks_ before the election—and you still let me believe you were going to stick around, that you _wanted_ to stick around.”

“Of course I wanted to stay—everyone wants things they can’t have! And it looks like I should have fucking left, Steve,” He points at the magazine, “Who knows what she has on us, now! Jesus Christ—what if she keeps digging?”

Steve runs his palm down his face, and Bucky watches that spark of fight die right out.

That dullness swallows him whole, leaving him empty and broken again, just like he’d been when Bucky first walked in.

Steve pulls his tie off completely, and folds it over in his palm. “I guess—I’ll handle it.”

_“What?”_

“If she keeps digging, I’ll handle it.” He says, turning to return to his desk, and his voice is hollow, “And I’ll keep you out of it. I won’t ask you to stay any longer, I’m sure you’re ready to leave.”

Bucky blinks at him, the adrenaline in his bones refusing to settle. “What the hell, Steve? Is that it? You called me here, what, just to yell at me?”

Steve rakes both hands through his hair, tugging lightly, “Don’t make me listen to how done with me you are, James; I don’t think I can take that. It’s fuckin’ selfish, I know it is, but I get it. You’re over it, you’ve moved on. I haven’t.”

The breath hitches in Bucky’s throat and tears spring into his eyes; because he isn’t.

He isn’t over it.

He probably won’t ever be; especially if his resolve shatters to bits the moment Steve needs him.

He takes a little step forward, and he knows it’s a mistake—he knows it’s the step that’ll yank him right back into the vicious cycle that’s loving Steve Rogers, but he can’t help it.

Steve’s still looking at the floor, but Bucky can hear the sob in his voice; “I love you, Bucky. I don’t know when it happened, and I don’t know whether I should or not, but I know it’s not going to change. Not now, probably not ever.”

“Steve—“

He closes his eyes, “Go, Buck. Just go—I can’t—“

“—I love you too, Steve,” Bucky’s voice trembles.

Steve looks up, disbelief plastered across his features. “Don’t just—don't just _lie_ to me, Buck. I’m not going to ask you to lie for me.”

“I’m not lying,” Buck’s voice breaks on a sob, “I wish—God, I fucking wish I were lying, Steve.”

“Buck—”

“—I want to hate you,” He sobs, the tears leaving hot streaks down his face, and down his dark jacket lapels. “I want to hate you, _so much_ , and somehow that's not enough—because I still fucking love you.”

Steve gets to his feet, “Buck—”

“—I _hate_ how much I still love you.” He yells, taking a step backwards, to keep the space between them, "I _hate_ that I fell for you in the first place."

_“Bucky—”_

"—I _hate_ that I think I'm good, I think I'm over you," He hiccups, "and then all it takes is hearing your _fucking name_ to rip me apart all over again."

"I'm sorry," Steve tries, his own tears running freely now, but Bucky's not done. 

"No, fuck you!" Bucky sobs, and the next thing he knows, Steve’s arms are around him.

And he wants to hate it. He wants to thrash and claw his way out of the embrace—but not more than he wants to stay in it. 

Not more than how he _can't_ get away, because Steve's arms feel like home more than anything ever has. 

And it's wrong—it's horribly, tragically wrong—he knows. He knows that this doesn't end well for either of them—for _anyone_ even remotely near them. It ends in hellfire and media circuses, torn political parties and a country of conservatives questioning the sanctity of their elected officials. It ends in a broken political family and divorces, and a child that'll grow up resenting his father for a life he didn't ask to be given. 

Selfishness swarms in his body, locked in by Steve's big strong arms in a way that makes his bones feel heavy, laden with the realization that for once, getting what he wants ends in cruelty. 

Staying is an awful, thoughtless choice to make; and James Barnes is hardly a thoughtless man. 

He couldn't be both the one to light the world on fire and the one to watch it burn.

"We can't do this," He sighs into Steve's chest, trying to separate from him; but Steve doesn't budge. They stand like that for a long, uninterrupted moment, just listening to each other's breaths until they even out, before Bucky repeats himself. "We can't, Steve."

Gently, into his hair, Steve whispers. "I know." 


End file.
